“Yes, I know,” she sighed. “There is—the Lady Alice. But, anyhow, she can't call a Christmas present 'charity'—not if it's only a little bit of frosting!” Billy's chin came up again.
“And you're going to, really, dare to send her something?”
“Yes,” avowed Billy. “I'm going down there one of these days, in the morning—”
“You're going down there! Billy—not alone?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“But, dearie, you mustn't. It was a horrid place, Will says.”
“So it was horrid—to live in. It was everything that was cheap and mean and forlorn. But it was quiet and respectable. 'Tisn't as if I didn't know the way, Bertram; and I'm sure that where that poor crippled woman and daughter are safe, I shall be. Mrs. Greggory is a lady, Bertram, well-born and well-bred, I'm sure—and that's the pity of it, to have to live in a place like that! They have seen better days, I know. Those pitiful little worn crutches of hers were mahogany, I'm sure, Bertram, and they were silver mounted.”
Bertram made a restless movement.
“I know, dear; but if you had some one with you! It wouldn't do for Will, of course, nor me—under the circumstances. But there's Aunt Hannah—” He paused hopefully.
Billy chuckled.