“Yes; 'till death us do part,'” breathed Billy.
And then, for a time, they fell silent.
“'I, Bertram, take thee, Billy,'” sang the whirring wheels beneath them, to one.
“'I, Billy, take thee, Bertram,'” sang the whirring wheels beneath them, to the other. While straight ahead before them both, stretched fair and beautiful in their eyes, the wondrous path of life which they were to tread together.
CHAPTER II. FOR WILLIAM—A HOME
On the first Sunday after the wedding Pete came up-stairs to tell his master, William, that Mrs. Stetson wanted to see him in the drawing-room.
William went down at once.
“Well, Aunt Hannah,” he began, reaching out a cordial hand. “Why, what's the matter?” he broke off concernedly, as he caught a clearer view of the little old lady's drawn face and troubled eyes.
“William, it's silly, of course,” cried Aunt Hannah, tremulously, “but I simply had to go to some one. I—I feel so nervous and unsettled! Did—did Billy say anything to you—what she was going to do?”
“What she was going to do? About what? What do you mean?”
“About the house—selling it,” faltered Aunt Hannah, sinking wearily back into her chair.
William frowned thoughtfully.
“Why, no,” he answered. “It was all so hurried at the last, you know. There was really very little chance to make plans for anything—except the wedding,” he finished, with a smile.
“Yes, I know,” sighed Aunt Hannah. “Everything was in such confusion! Still, I didn't know but she might have said something—to you.”
“No, she didn't. But I imagine it won't be hard to guess what she'll do. When they get back from their trip I fancy she won't lose much time in having what things she wants brought down here. Then she'll sell the rest and put the house on the market.”
“Yes, of—of course,” stammered Aunt Hannah, pulling herself hastily to a more erect position. “That's what I thought, too. Then don't you think we'd better dismiss Rosa and close the house at once?”
“Why—yes, perhaps so. Why not? Then you'd be all settled here when she comes home. I'm sure, the sooner you come, the better I'll be pleased,” he smiled.
Aunt Hannah turned sharply.
“Here!” she ejaculated. “William Henshaw, you didn't suppose I was coming here to live, did you?”
It was William's turn to look amazed.
“Why, of course you're coming here! Where else should you go, pray?”
“Where I was before—before Billy came—to you,” returned Aunt Hannah a little tremulously, but with a certain dignity. “I shall take a room in some quiet boarding-house, of course.”
“Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! As if Billy would listen to that! You came before; why not come now?”
Aunt Hannah lifted her chin the fraction of an inch.
“You forget. I was needed before. Billy is a married woman now. She needs no chaperon.”
“Nonsense!” scowled William, again. “Billy will always need you.”
Aunt Hannah shook her head mournfully.
“I like to think—she wants me, William, but I know, in my heart, it isn't best.”
“Why not?”
There was a moment's pause; then, decisively came the answer.
“Because I think young married folks should not have outsiders in the home.”
William laughed relievedly.
“Oh, so that's it! Well, Aunt Hannah, you're no outsider. Come, run right along home and pack your trunk.”
Aunt Hannah was plainly almost crying; but she held her ground.
“William, I can't,” she reiterated.
“But—Billy is such a child, and—”
For once in her circumspect life Aunt Hannah was guilty of an interruption.
“Pardon me, William, she is not a child. She is a woman now, and she has a woman's problems to meet.”
“Well, then, why don't you help her meet them?” retorted William, still with a whimsical smile.
But Aunt Hannah did not smile. For a minute she did not speak; then, with her eyes studiously averted, she said:
“William, the first four years of my married life were—were spoiled by an outsider in our home. I don't mean to spoil Billy's.”
William relaxed visibly. The smile fled from his face.
“Why—Aunt—Hannah!” he exclaimed.
The little old lady turned with a weary sigh.
“Yes, I know. You are shocked, of course. I shouldn't have told you. Still, it is all past long ago, and—I wanted to make you understand why I can't come. He was my husband's eldest brother—a bachelor. He was good and kind, and meant well, I suppose; but—he interfered with everything. I was young, and probably headstrong. At all events, there was constant friction. He went away once and stayed two whole months. I shall never forget the utter freedom and happiness of those months for us, with the whole house to ourselves. No, William, I can't come.” She rose abruptly and turned toward the door. Her eyes were wistful, and her face was still drawn with suffering; but her whole frail little self quivered plainly with high resolve. “John has Peggy outside. I must go.”
“But—but, Aunt Hannah,” began William, helplessly.
She lifted a protesting hand.
“No, don't urge me, please. I can't come here. But—I believe I won't close the house till Billy gets home, after all,” she declared. The next moment she was gone, and William, dazedly, from the doorway, was watching John help her into Billy's automobile, called by Billy and half her friends, “Peggy,” short for “Pegasus.”
Still dazedly William turned back into the house and dropped himself into the nearest chair.
What a curious call it had been! Aunt Hannah had not acted like herself at all. Not once had she said “Oh, my grief and conscience!” while the things she had said—! Someway, he had never thought of Aunt Hannah as being young, and a bride. Still, of course she must have been—once. And the reason she gave for not coming there to live—the pitiful story of that outsider in her home! But she was no outsider! She was no interfering brother of Billy's—
William caught his breath suddenly, and held it suspended. Then he gave a low ejaculation and half sprang from his chair.
Spunkie, disturbed from her doze by the fire, uttered a purring “me-o-ow,” and looked up inquiringly.
For a long minute William gazed dumbly into the cat's yellow, sleepily contented eyes; then he said with tragic distinctness:
“Spunkie, it's true: Aunt Hannah isn't Billy's husband's brother, but—I am! Do you hear? I am!”
“Pur-r-me-ow!” commented Spunkie; and curled herself for another nap.
There was no peace for William after that. In vain he told himself that he