A stern look came to the corners of William's mouth—a look that Bertram understood well.
“All right, I'll go to dinner, of course; but I sha'n't stay,” said William, firmly. “I've thought it all out. I know I'm right. Come, we'll go to dinner now, and say no more about it,” he finished with a cheery smile, as he rose to his feet. Then, to the bride, he added: “Did you have a nice trip, little girl?”
Billy, too, had risen, now, but she did not seem to have heard his question. In the fast falling twilight her face looked a little white.
“Uncle William,” she began very quietly, “do you think for a minute that just because I married your brother I am going to live in that house and turn you out of the home you've lived in all your life?”
“Nonsense, dear! I'm not turned out. I just go,” corrected Uncle William, gayly.
With superb disdain Billy brushed this aside.
“Oh, no, you won't,” she declared; “but—I shall.”
“Billy!” gasped Bertram.
“My—my dear!” expostulated William, faintly.
“Uncle William! Bertram! Listen,” panted Billy. “I never told you much before, but I'm going to, now. Long ago, when I went away with Aunt Hannah, your sister Kate showed me how dear the old home was to you—how much you thought of it. And she said—she said that I had upset everything.” (Bertram interjected a sharp word, but Billy paid no attention.) “That's why I went; and I shall go again—if you don't come home to-morrow to stay, Uncle William. Come, now let's go to dinner, please. Bertram's hungry,” she finished, with a bright smile.