Once again, back and forth, back and forth, Billy took up her weary vigil. She still wore the heavy coat. She had forgotten to take it off.
Her face was pitifully white and drawn. Her eyes were wild. One of her hands was nervously caressing the rough sleeve of the coat as it hung from her shoulder.
One--two--three--
Billy gave a sharp cry and ran into the hall.
Yes, it was twelve o'clock. And now, always, all the rest of the dreary, useless hours that that clock would tick away through an endless existence, she would have to live--without Bertram.
If only she could see him once more! But she could not. He was dead. He must be dead, now.
Here it was twelve o'clock, and--
There came a quick step, the click of a key in the lock, then the door swung back and Bertram, big, strong, and merry-eyed, stood before her.
``Well, well, hullo,'' he called jovially. Why, Billy, what's the matter?'' he broke off, in quite a different tone of voice.
And then a curious thing happened. Billy, who, a minute before, had been seeing only a dear, noble, adorable, _lost_ Bertram, saw now suddenly only the man that had stayed _happily_ till midnight with two friends, while she--she--``Matter! Matter!'' exclaimed Billy sharply, then. ``Is this what you call staying to dinner, Bertram Henshaw?''
Bertram stared. A slow red stole to his forehead. It was his first experience of coming home to meet angry eyes that questioned his behavior --and he did not like it. He had been, perhaps, a little conscience-smitten when he saw how late he had stayed; and he had intended to say he was sorry, of course. But to be thus sharply called to account for a perfectly innocent good time with a couple of friends--! To come home and find Billy making a ridiculous scene like this--! He--he would not stand for it! He--Bertram's lips snapped open. The angry retort was almost spoken when something in the piteously quivering chin and white, drawn face opposite stopped it just in time.
``Why, Billy--darling!'' he murmured instead.
It was Billy's turn to change. All the anger melted away before the dismayed tenderness in those dear eyes and the grieved hurt in that dear voice.
``Well, you--you--I--'' Billy began to cry.
It was all right then, of course, for the next minute she was crying on Bertram's big, broad shoulder; and in the midst of broken words, kisses, gentle pats, and inarticulate croonings, the Big, Bad Quarrel, that had been all ready to materialize, faded quite away into nothingness.
``I didn't have such an awfully good time, anyhow, avowed Bertram, when speech became rational. ``I'd rather have been home with you.''
``Nonsense!'' blinked Billy, valiantly. ``Of course you had a good time; and it was perfectly right you should have it, too! And I--I hope you'll have it again.''
``I sha'n't,'' emphasized Bertram, promptly, ``--not and leave you!''
Billy regarded him with adoring eyes.
``I'll tell you; we'll have 'em come here,'' she proposed gayly.
``Sure we will,'' agreed Bertram.
``Yes; sure we will,'' echoed Billy, with a contented sigh. Then, a little breathlessly, she added: ``Anyhow, I'll know--where you are.
I won't think you're--dead!''
``You--blessed--little-goose!'' scolded Bertram, punctuating each word with a kiss.
Billy drew a long sigh.
``If this is a quarrel I'm going to have them often,'' she announced placidly.
``Billy!'' The young husband was plainly aghast.
``Well, I am--because I like the making-up, dimpled Billy, with a mischievous twinkle as she broke from his clasp and skipped ahead up the stairway.
