Amazement, incredulity, and a look that was almost terror crossed the old man's face; then a flood of dull red blotted them all out and left only worshipful rapture. With a choking cry he took the slim little hand in both his rough and twisted ones much as if he were possessing himself of a treasured bit of eggshell china.
“Miss Billy!”
“Pete, there aren't a pair of feet in Boston, nor a pair of hands, either, that I'd rather have serve me than yours, no matter if they stumble and blunder all day! I shall love stumbles and blunders—if you make them. Now run home, and don't ever let me hear another syllable about your leaving!”
They were not the words Billy had intended to say. She had meant to speak of his long, faithful service, and of how much they appreciated it; but, to her surprise, Billy found her own eyes wet and her own voice trembling, and the words that she would have said she found fast shut in her throat. So there was nothing to do but to stammer out something—anything, that would help to keep her from yielding to that absurd and awful desire to fall on the old servant's neck and cry.
“Not another syllable!” she repeated sternly.
“Miss Billy!” choked Pete again. Then he turned and fled with anything but his usual dignity.
Bertram called that evening. When Billy came to him in the living-room, her slender self was almost hidden behind the swirls of damask linen in her arms.
Bertram's eyes grew mutinous.
“Do you expect me to hug all that?” he demanded.
Billy flashed him a mischievous glance.