“Thank you, you are very kind,” murmured the lady; “but—are you alone, Billy? Where are the boys?”
“Uncle William is out of town, and Cyril is rushed to death and sent his excuses. Bertram did mean to come, but he telephoned this morning that he couldn't, after all. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to make the best of just me,” condoled Billy. “They'll be out to the house this evening, of course—all but Uncle William. He doesn't return until to-morrow.”
“Oh, doesn't he?” murmured the lady, reaching for her daughter's hand.
Billy looked down with a smile.
“And this is little Kate, I suppose,” she said, “whom I haven't seen for such a long, long time. Let me see, you are how old now?”
“I'm eight. I've been eight six weeks.”
Billy's eyes twinkled.
“And you don't remember me, I suppose.”
The little girl shook her head.
“No; but I know who you are,” she added, with shy eagerness. “You're going to be my Aunt Billy, and you're going to marry my Uncle William—I mean, my Uncle Bertram.”