“Maybe Chet could help,” she thought, and then laughed at herself for thinking it.  Chet had just about as much chance of getting that hundred dollars as she had herself.

At that moment Debbie came in with her fruit and cereal, and she turned from the window with a sigh.

“I might as well eat,” she thought resignedly, “for if I starve myself to death or die of worry, there won’t be anybody left to pay for that old book worm.”

Then her irrepressible imp of mischief reasserted itself and she laughed.

“Hello, look at the grand lady,” a fresh young voice called to her from the doorway.  She turned with a spoon half way to her mouth to see her brother laughing at her.

“What was that you called me?” she asked.  As a matter of fact, her thoughts had been so far away that she actually had not heard what he said.

“Say, what’s the matter?” asked Chet, flinging his tennis racket into one chair and seating himself on the arm of another.  “Are you sick?”

“Yes.  Or if I’m not, I ought to be,” replied Billie ruefully, at which peculiar remark Chet looked still more amazed.

“Now what particular thing is worrying you?” he asked in an argumentative tone, leaning toward her.  “Come, ’fess up, Billie.  What have you been doing when my back was turned?  Robbing a bank?”

“Oh, much worse than that!” cried Billie unexpectedly, and her brother’s good-looking face began to take on an expression of alarm.

“Worse?” he queried.  “There’s only about one thing worse—­and that’s murder.”

“Oh, Chet, that’s just what I did,” she cried, her imp of mischief uppermost.  “I murdered a ‘Girl Reading a Book.’”

“Well,” said Chet, taking this startling bit of information more calmly than would have been thought possible, “you don’t seem very much worried about it.”

“Oh, but, Chet, I am!” once more the cloud banished the merry gleam in Billie’s eyes.  “Wait till I show you.”

She left her breakfast, ran upstairs, and was back in a minute with the newspaper parcel.

“Here she is,” she cried, displaying the contents tragically.

Chet fingered one or two of the broken bits.  Then he looked at her curiously.

“Go on, ’fess up,” he commanded.  “Tell yours truly all about it.”

This Billie did in the fewest words possible and then sat down to the bacon and eggs that Debbie had placed temptingly on the table.  And cornbread!  Debbie’s cornbread was a masterpiece.

When Billie had finished Chet looked grave.

“Well,” he said, fingering the pieces thoughtfully, “it does seem as if the only square thing to do would be to replace it.”

“Oh, I must, Chet—­I must!” she interrupted earnestly.

“But how?” he asked.  “A hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“I know,” agreed Billie miserably.

“I don’t think Dad will be able to make it good just now,” went on Chet, in that sober tone that made people in North Bend feel confidence in Chetwood Bradley, young as he yet was.  “I heard him say the other day that all his capital was tied up.  And then it costs so much to live—­”