“But that isn't a bit of a nice way to accept an invitation,” disapproved Billy. “You should say, 'Thank you, I'd be delighted, I'm sure, and I'll stay.'”
In spite of herself the little music teacher laughed, and in the laugh her tense muscles relaxed.
“Miss Billy, Miss Billy, what is one to do with you? Surely you know—you must know that I can't do what you ask!”
“I'm sure I don't see why not,” argued Billy. “I'm merely giving you an invitation and all you have to do is to accept it.”
“But the invitation is only the kind way your heart has of covering another of your many charities,” objected Marie; “besides, I have to teach. I have my living to earn.”
“But you can't,” demurred the other. “That's just the trouble. Don't you see? The doctor said last night that you must not teach again this winter.”
“Not teach—again—this winter! No, no, he could not be so cruel as that!”
“It wasn't cruel, dear; it was kind. You would be ill if you attempted it. Now you'll get better. He says all you need is rest and care—and that's exactly what I mean my guest shall have.”
Quick tears came to the sick girl's eyes.
“There couldn't be a kinder heart than yours, Miss Billy,” she murmured, “but I couldn't—I really couldn't be a burden to you like this. I shall go to some hospital.”