"Oh, but, Debbie," said Billie, using the coaxing tone that even black Deborah, tyrant of the household, could never quite resist, "remember how many mornings I have had to get up at seven and go out in the drizzling rain and—"
"All right, honey, all right," said Deborah, her heart touched by this reference to the hardships her young mistress had suffered. "You go in 'tother room an' don't bother Debbie an' she'll bring you in the prettiest breakfast you ever did see."
Somewhat cheered by this promise, Billie retreated into the sun-flooded dining-room, and, going over to a window under which flowers bloomed gayly in boxes, looked out at the pretty view.
From where she stood she commanded a full view of the tennis court, on which she could see that a warm set of singles was in progress. One of the players was Chet, and as she watched she saw him fling his racket high in the air.
"My set, Tom!" he cried. "That puts us even. Play you the rubber this afternoon. So long!" and with his tennis balls in his hand and his racket under his arm he sauntered over toward home.
"Dear old Chet!" murmured Billie fondly.
Then came the thought of that hundred dollars she must get some way or other, and suddenly there flashed into her mind a little ray of hope.
"Maybe Chet could help," she thought, and then laughed at herself for thinking it. Chet had just about as much chance of getting that hundred dollars as she had herself.
At that moment Debbie came in with her fruit and cereal, and she turned from the window with a sigh.
"I might as well eat," she thought resignedly, "for if I starve myself to death or die of worry, there won't be anybody left to pay for that old book worm."