It would be sold, of course; and she, Aunt Hannah, would go back to a "second-story front" and loneliness in some Back Bay boarding-house; and a second story front and loneliness would not be easy now, after these years of home--and Billy.
No wonder, indeed, that Aunt Hannah sat crying and patting the little white glove in her hand.

No wonder, too, that--being Aunt Hannah--she reached for the shawl near by and put it on, shiveringly.

Even July, to-night, was cold--to Aunt Hannah.
In yet another home that evening was the wedding of Billy Neilson and Bertram Henshaw uppermost in thought and speech.

In a certain little South-End flat where, in two rented rooms, lived Alice Greggory and her crippled mother, Alice was talking to Mr.M.J.Arkwright, commonly known to his friends as "Mary Jane," owing to the mystery in which he had for so long shrouded his name.
Arkwright to-night was plainly moody and ill at ease.
"You're not listening.

You're not listening at all," complained Alice Greggory at last, reproachfully.
With a visible effort the man roused himself.
"Indeed I am," he maintained.
"I thought you'd be interested in the wedding.