MISS Billy was an early riser. She opened her eyes to the sunshine and pure morning air as naturally as a flower. So it came about that at six o'clock of a May morning she was skipping downstairs before any other member of the family had stirred, with a quick springing step that was peculiarly her own. Miss Billy's sprightly locomotion was a constant source of amusement to her family, and of mortification to Miss Billy herself. "It is my misfortune, not my fault," she was wont to say when her brother Theodore described her gait as "galumphing," and her sister Beatrice pleaded with her to study physical culture; "and it's like struggling against Fate to attempt to walk with discretion. I suppose it is merely an 'evening-up' of things, and that Providence gave it to me to offset my lovely disposition."

But upon this Spring morning Miss Billy's unfortunate step did not seem to be weighing upon her mind. The glow and thrill of the golden day opening before her sent the warm blood coursing quickly through her veins, and the world seemed made for youth and beauty and happiness. Miss Billy sang softly to herself as she opened the side door and stepped out into the garden.

"The garden" was a small shady spot on the north side of the tall city house. It was not a promising place for flowers, but Miss Billy's love for growing things was great, and by dint of much urging and encouragement on her part, a few spring flowers eked out a precarious existence in the barren soil. Above the flower plot was an open bedroom window. Miss Billy's eyes twinkled wickedly, and her soft song changed into the whistled notes of a schoolboy's call. There was a sound as of two bare feet coming down with a thud in the room above her, and in a moment a tall form in gay scarlet pajamas, with a towsled head atop, appeared at the window.

"That you, Tom?" whispered a sleepy voice.

Miss Billy looked up from the flowers. The violets themselves were not more demure than her own face.

"Oh, hello, Ted!" she said; "Tom's not here."

"Well, who is?"

"No one but me."

"But I heard some one whistle."

"That was me too," said Miss Billy frankly and ungrammatically.

"Well, I must say that your joke—I suppose you intended it for a joke—is extremely crude," replied her brother crossly.

"You said last night that I couldn't get you out of bed," jeered Miss Billy. "Beside, I wanted you to see the sun rise. I have seen two myself, this morning."

"Well you may now have the pleasure of seeing one go back to bed," said Theodore. He left the window abruptly, and Miss Billy heard him thump his pillow impatiently as she turned again to the garden.

"Ted never has much sense of humour at six o'clock in the morning," she said, passing her loving hands under the tender green leaves. "Six blossoms! These are the most modest violets I ever saw in my life. They're afraid to show their heads above the ground. At this rate it won't take me long to prepare my floral creation for the breakfast table."

There was still no sign of life about the house when she came back with the flowers, and Miss Billy wondered, as she put the purple blossoms in a clear green glass bowl, what she should do next.

"I might practise half an hour," she said to herself, looking in at the piano as she stood in the hall door,—

"—but my hair is too curly now, and if my nose was straight, people would expect more of me. Beside, I hate to waste this lovely morning on scaly exercises. I believe I'll write a letter to Margaret. I feel in the right mood to talk to her."

The same peculiar quick-step carried Miss Billy to her desk, where, dipping a battered-looking pen into the ink, she began:—

Miss Billy laid down her pen with a sigh of relief, and wiped her ink-stained fingers. She had just lighted her little candle and produced a stick of wax to seal the letter, when a deafening noise filled the hall below. At the foot of the stairs stood her brother Theodore, armed with a Chinese gong, upon which he was performing with great vigour. His boyish tenor rang out clearly:

"Breakfast waits, Miss Billy. Did you go back to bed again?"

The family had assembled at breakfast when the younger daughter entered the dining room, smiling over Theodore's improvised poetry. "Mother looks more sober than usual," she thought, as she drew the sweet face to her own.

"Morning, motherie."

"Good-morning, little daughter. You left your footprints behind you. The violets are lovely."

There was an unsealed letter at Miss Billy's plate, and similar envelopes for Beatrice and Theodore. Miss Billy opened hers first. It ran:

The letters excited no comment. They were an every-day occurrence in the Lee family. If Theodore's unruly tongue caused mischief, or his love of a joke was carried too far, a delicate reminder at his plate was sure to call attention to the fact. If Beatrice stopped for a moment to exchange compliments with her old enemy, Personal Vanity, or did she pursue an uneven tenor of fault-finding for a time, a letter was the means of bringing her to order. But upon Miss Billy,—energetic, wideawake Miss Billy,—who was always doing things, and doing them hard, the missives descended like flocks of white doves. These letters did not all contain censure. Some of them were so full of praise as to make their owner blush with an embarrassment of happiness, but one could never be sure beforehand of the contents.

Theodore was already in the study when Miss Billy entered. He was stretched out on the floor with two sofa pillows under his head and four under his feet.

"Something's up," he remarked sagely.

"Yes," assented Miss Billy, "and that something had better come down. Take the pillows from under your feet, Ted."

"Well, I hope the bank hasn't gone busted, or father's colt been killed, or anything happened to our government bonds, or Maggie given warning, or Beatrice plighted her troth to a peanut man. Billy, what a savage you are! What are pillows for, I'd like to know. I should think you'd be afraid to treat me as you do. Some day the worm will turn, and when a belted earl comes to seek your hand I'll expose your tyranny."

"Theodore," said Miss Billy, standing very tall and straight, and with a serious expression on her usually merry face,—"stop joking and listen. Something is up, really. I've been waiting for it to come out for a month. Of course I don't know exactly what it is, but I have my suspicions, and every time I have looked at mother's sober face I have felt guilty to be happy. Now Ted, if what I think turns out to be true, I have some plans to propose, and you must stand by me in them."

"What do you mean?" asked Theodore, with a boy's disgust for mystery. "You're talking in parables, Miss Billy."

"I mean that I'm sure father's lost some money," answered his sister hurriedly. "I haven't time to explain now; the whole family will be here in a minute. But when the rest come in, I want you to say exactly what I say, and uphold me in every way."

"Well, I like that," gasped Theodore, raising himself on one elbow. "Say exactly what you say! What do you intend to say, and why should I play follow-my-leader? No ma'am, I sign no paper before reading it."

"But you must," insisted Miss Billy hurriedly. "You'll understand why later. You've got to pull with me. I know how Beatrice will act, and I'll need an ally the minute her tears begin to flow. I depend upon you to stand by me, as you always do. Come Ted, promise. Quick, they're coming."

"Your blandishments have the usual telling effect," groaned Theodore. "I promise,—I suppose I've got to. But you're responsible for all the evil that may come from my yielding to temptation." He collapsed among the pillows, and had just succeeded in covering his tall form with a slumber robe when the rest of the family entered.