With a little cry she broke away from her husband's arms.
"Mercy! and here's poor Uncle William, bless his heart, with not a thing to eat yet!" They all got dinner then, together, with many a sigh and quick-coming tear as everywhere they met some sad reminder of the gentle old hands that would never again minister to their comfort.
It was a silent meal, and little, after all, was eaten, though brave attempts at cheerfulness and naturalness were made by all three.
Bertram, especially, talked, and tried to make sure that the shadow on Billy's face was at least not the one his own conduct had brought there.
"For you do--you surely do forgive me, don't you ?" he begged, as he followed her into the kitchen after the sorry meal was over.
"Why, yes, dear, yes," sighed Billy, trying to smile.
"And you'll forget ?" There was no answer.
"Billy! And you'll forget ?" Bertram's voice was insistent, reproachful.
Billy changed color and bit her lip.

She looked plainly distressed.
"Billy!" cried the man, still more reproachfully.
"But, Bertram, I can't forget--quite yet," faltered Billy.
Bertram frowned.

For a minute he looked as if he were about to take up the matter seriously and argue it with her; but the next moment he smiled and tossed his head with jaunty playfulness--Bertram, to tell the truth, had now had quite enough of what he privately termed "scenes" and "heroics"; and, manlike, he was very ardently longing for the old easy-going friendliness, with all unpleasantness banished to oblivion.
"Oh, but you'll have to forget," he claimed, with cheery insistence, "for you've promised to forgive me--and one can't forgive without forgetting.

So, there!" he finished, with a smilingly determined "now-everything-is-just-as-it-was-before" air.
Billy made no response.

She turned hurriedly and began to busy herself with the dishes at the sink.