“I never said a word about cultivation!” Billy, who had been apparently deep in his book, looked up to snap angrily.  Any allusion to his efforts at self-improvement always touched him in a very sensitive place.

“Why, you did too!  You said—–­”

“Oh, I did not!  If you’re going to talk so much, Sue, you ought to have some faint idea what you’re talking about!”

“Very well,” Susan said loftily, “if you can’t address me like a gentleman, we won’t discuss it.  I’m not anxious for your opinion, anyway.”

A silence.  Mr. Oliver read with passionate attention.  Susan sighed, sorted her letters, sighed again.

“Billy, do you love me?” she asked winningly, after a pause.

Another silence.  Mr. Oliver turned a page.

“Are you sure you’ve read every word on that page, Bill,—­every little word?”

Silence again.

“You know, you began this, Bill,” Susan said presently, with childish sweet reproach.  “Don’t say anything, Bill; I can’t ask that!  But if you still love me, just smile!”

By some miracle, Billy preserved his scowl.

“Not even a glimmer!” Susan said, despondently.  “I’ll tell you, Bill,” she added, gushingly.  “Just turn a page, and I’ll take it for a sign of love!” She clasped her hands, and watched him breathlessly.

Mr. Oliver reached the point where the page must be turned.  He moved his eyes stealthily upward.

“Oh, no you don’t!  No going back!” exulted Susan.  She jumped up, grabbed the book, encircled his head with her arms, kissed her own hand vivaciously and made a mad rush for the stairs.  Mr. Oliver caught her half-way up the flight, with more energy than dignity, and got his book back by doubling her little finger over with an increasing pressure until Susan managed to drop the volume to the hall below.

“Bill, you beast!  You’ve broken my finger!” Susan, breathless and dishevelled, sat beside him on the narrow stair, and tenderly worked the injured member, “It hurts!”

“Let Papa tiss it!”

“You try it once!”

“Sh-sh!  Ma says not so much noise!” hissed Mary Lou, from the floor above, where she had been summoned some hours ago, “Alfie’s just dropped off!”

On Monday a new life began for Susan Brown.  She stepped from the dingy boarding-house in Fulton Street straight into one of the most beautiful homes in the state, and, so full were the first weeks, that she had no time for homesickness, no time for letters, no time for anything but the briefest of scribbled notes to the devoted women she left behind her.

Emily Saunders herself met the newcomer at the station, looking very unlike an invalid,—­looking indeed particularly well and happy, if rather pale, as she was always pale, and a little too fat after the idle and carefully-fed experience in the hospital.  Susan peeped into Miss Ella’s big room, as they went upstairs.  Ella was stretched comfortably on a wide, flowery couch, reading as her maid rubbed her loosened hair with some fragrant toilet water, and munching chocolates.