Marie covered her face with her hands then and began to sob brokenly; so there was nothing for Billy to do but to take her into her arms with soothing little murmurs and pettings. By degrees, then, the whole story came out.

Billy almost laughed--but she almost cried, too. Then she said:

"Dearie, I don't believe Cyril feels or acts half so bad as Bertram and Kate make out, and, anyhow, if he did, it's too late now to--to send the wedding cake to the hospital, or make any other of the little changes you suggest." Billy's lips puckered into a half-smile, but her eyes were grave. "Besides, there are your music pupils tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the living-room this minute with evergreen, there's little Kate making her flower-girl wreath, and Mrs. Hartwell stacking cake boxes in the hall, to say nothing of Rosa gloating over the best china in the dining-room, and Aunt Hannah putting purple bows into the new lace cap she's counting on wearing. Only think how disappointed they'd all be if I should say: 'Never mind--stop that. Marie's just going to have a minister. No fuss, no feathers!' Why, dearie, even the roses are hanging their heads for grief," she went on mistily, lifting with gentle fingers one of the full-petalled pink beauties near her. "Besides, there's your--guests."

"Oh, of course, I knew I couldn't--really," sighed Marie, as she turned to go up-stairs, all the light and joy gone from her face.

Billy, once a.s.sured that Marie was out of hearing, ran to the telephone.

Bertram answered.

"Bertram, tell Cyril I want to speak to him, please."

"All right, dear, but go easy. Better strike up your tuning fork to find his pitch to-day. You'll discover it's a high one, all right."

A moment later Cyril's tersely nervous "Good morning, Billy," came across the line.

Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly apprehensive glance over her shoulder to make sure Marie was not near.

"Cyril," she called in a low voice, "if you care a shred for Marie, for heaven's sake call her up and tell her that you dote on pink roses, and pink ribbons, and pink breakfasts--and pink wedding cake!"

"But I don't."

"Oh, yes, you do--to-day! You would--if you could see Marie now."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, only she overheard part of Bertram's nonsensical talk with Kate a little while ago, and she's ready to cast the last ravelling of white satin and conventionality behind her, and go with you to the justice of the peace."

"Sensible girl!"

"Yes, but she can't, you know, with fifty guests coming to the wedding, and twice as many more to the reception. Honestly, Cyril, she's broken-hearted. You must do something. She's--coming!" And the receiver clicked sharply into place.

Five minutes later Marie was called to the telephone. Dejectedly, wistful-eyed, she went. Just what were the words that hummed across the wire into the pink little ear of the bride-to-be, Billy never knew; but a Marie that was anything but wistful-eyed and dejected left the telephone a little later, and was heard very soon in the room above trilling merry s.n.a.t.c.hes of a little song. Contentedly, then, Billy went back to her roses.

It was a pretty wedding, a very pretty wedding. Every one said that. The pink and green of the decorations, the soft lights (Kate had had her way about darkening the rooms), the pretty frocks and smiling faces of the guests all helped. Then there were the dainty flower girl, little Kate, the charming maid of honor, Billy, the stalwart, handsome best man, Bertram, to say nothing of the delicately beautiful bride, who looked like some fairy visitor from another world in the floating shimmer of her gossamer silk and tulle. There was, too, not quite unnoticed, the bridegroom; tall, of distinguished bearing, and with features that were clear cut and-to-day-rather pale.

Then came the reception--the "women and confusion" of Cyril's fears--followed by the going away of the bride and groom with its merry warfare of confetti and old shoes.

At four o'clock, however, with only William and Bertram remaining for guests, something like quiet descended at last on the little house.

"Well, it's over," sighed Billy, dropping exhaustedly into a big chair in the living-room.

"And _well_ over," supplemented Aunt Hannah, covering her white shawl with a warmer blue one.

"Yes, I think it was," nodded Kate. "It was really a very pretty wedding."

"With your help, Kate--eh?" teased William.

"Well, I flatter myself I did do some good," bridled Kate, as she turned to help little Kate take the flower wreath from her head.

"Even if you did hurry into my room and scare me into conniption fits telling me I'd be late," laughed Billy.

Kate tossed her head.

"Well, how was I to know that Aunt Hannah's clock only meant half-past eleven when it struck twelve?" she retorted.

Everybody laughed.

"Oh, well, it was a pretty wedding," declared William, with a long sigh.

"It'll do--for an understudy," said Bertram softly, for Billy's ears alone.

Only the added color and the swift glance showed that Billy heard, for when she spoke she said:

"And didn't Cyril behave beautifully? 'Most every time I looked at him he was talking to some woman."

"Oh, no, he wasn't--begging your pardon, my dear," objected Bertram. "I watched him, too, even more closely than you did, and it was always the _woman_ who was talking to _Cyril!_"

Billy laughed.

"Well, anyhow," she maintained, "he listened. He didn't run away."

"As if a bridegroom could!" cried Kate.

"I'm going to," avowed Bertram, his nose in the air.

"Pooh!" scoffed Kate. Then she added eagerly: "You must be married in church, Billy, and in the evening."

Bertram's nose came suddenly out of the air. His eyes met Kate's squarely.

"Billy hasn't decided yet how _she_ does want to be married," he said with unnecessary emphasis.

Billy laughed and interposed a quick change of subject.

"I think people had a pretty good time, too, for a wedding, don't you?"

she asked. "I was sorry Mary Jane couldn't be here--'twould have been such a good chance for him to meet our friends."

"As--_Mary Jane?_" asked Bertram, a little stiffly.

"Really, my dear," murmured Aunt Hannah, "I think it _would_ be more respectful to call him by his name."

"By the way, what is his name?" questioned William.

"That's what we don't know," laughed Billy.

"Well, you know the 'Arkwright,' don't you?" put in Bertram. Bertram, too, laughed, but it was a little forcedly. "I suppose if you knew his name was 'Methuselah,' you wouldn't call him that--yet, would you?"