MISS BILLY entered the study with an agitated whirl of ribbons and hair. Her hat was off, her face flushed, and every curl stood on end.

"What do you think I have discovered?" she said in indignant tones.

Beatrice looked up calmly from her mother's chair. Mr. and Mrs. Lee were spending the day away from home, and the elder daughter responded to the question with a little air of authority that was particularly exasperating to Miss Billy in her present mood:

"If you had asked what you had lost I should know," she said coolly. "Your temper has evidently gone astray."

"I know I'm foolish to blaze up so suddenly," admitted Miss Billy; "but it's the injustice of the thing that made me hot. Mrs. Canary has just been telling me how much rent the Caseys paid for this house."

"How much was it?" inquired Beatrice. "Less than we are paying?"

"Fifteen dollars instead of twenty," said Miss Billy indignantly. "But of course I wouldn't say a word about it if old Mr. Schultzsky had made the repairs he promised. He hasn't lived up to his agreement at all. We paid for having the house painted; father furnished the screens; Theodore mended the gate, and I propped up the back fence, myself. That window upstairs is still broken, and when Ted reminded him of it he grunted and remarked that the cold weather was over. The doorbell is out of order, the step is broken, and that walk in front of the house is a disgrace to the world. The whole tottering skeleton of a house will fall in a heap some day. If we pay twenty dollars a month for rent, as we agreed, he is going to do the things he agreed to."

"How are you going to bring this law of equality about?" inquired Theodore.

Miss Billy hesitated. The conferences with the landlord in the past had not met with any visible amount of success. Still there were forces which had not as yet been brought to bear. Miss Billy decided quickly, as was her custom.

"What he needs is some one to tell him a few unvarnished truths," she said energetically. "Father is too easy to deal with him, and mother is too ladylike. I'm going to interview him myself."

"Billy the Bold!" exclaimed Theodore. "My heart swells with pride at your courage. Where and when is the interview to take place?"

"I don't know," said Miss Billy dubiously. "I don't believe he has an office, and I hate to go inside that mouldy old shell across the street. I have my suspicions about his living there, anyway. He looks as though he slept in that old buggy of his."

"You might advertise and arrange a meeting that way," suggested Theodore. "'Sprightly maiden of sixteen wishes to meet a scholarly and refined gentleman of sixty-five. Object, new sidewalk, and what may follow.'"

"I've half a mind to tackle him to-day," said Miss Billy musingly. "The rent is due, and I might soften the blow with a generous bill. I believe I'll try it. Give me the rent money, Theodore. I'll get a promise out of him, or die in the attempt!"

"Do you mean to say you're going to pay him the rent yourself, and express your sentiments then?" asked Theodore.

"Yes, I do," returned Miss Billy stoutly.

"What shall you say to him?" asked Beatrice, with a note of admiration in her usually even voice, for Miss Billy never looked prettier than when she stood in her face-the-world attitude, with eyes big and earnest and face aglow.

"She will arm herself with the butcher-knife and the rent money," jeered Theodore, "and meet him at the door. And, withering him beneath her stern and forbidding glance, she will say: 'Move at the peril of your life. Mend the doorbell, put in the glass and fix the front walk before you speak a word. Stand and deliver.' And he will remark, like Riley's tree-toad, 'Don't shoot, I'll come down'; and ask, yea, beseech her to permit him to go for his tack hammer."

"Well, we need the improvements badly enough," said Beatrice, "but I don't think you'd better try it, Wilhelmina. It seems so bold,—somehow. Besides, you won't get anything out of him."

"Just you wait and see," said Miss Billy confidently.

It was about an hour later that Mr. Schultzsky's thin horse stopped at the gate, and Mr. Schultzsky himself shuffled up the narrow walk to the front door.

"Here comes your victim, Sisterling," announced Theodore cheerfully. "Do you feel that you need me for a witness, or to preserve the dignity of the occasion?"

Billy took off her sweeping-cap, and slowly adjusted the safety pins at the back of her shirt-waist.

"Just let him wait a while," she said. "That'll show him that the bell is out of order." But in spite of her savage words she met him at the door smilingly.

"Good-morning, Mr. Schultzsky," she said cordially. "Will you come in?"

For answer Mr. Schultzsky held out his monthly account.

"Oh, the rent bill!" responded Miss Billy. "You're like the stork, Mr. Schultzsky, that always comes around with a big bill. But I want to talk with you a few minutes. Won't you come in?"

The landlord ignored the feeble joke, and gave a stolid grunt, which Miss Billy interpreted as a refusal. "Well," she said, sitting down on the doorstep, "if you won't come in I suppose I can talk to you here. Mr. Schultzsky, perhaps you noticed that our doorbell is broken."

The old man made no reply, and Miss Billy went on:

"The window upstairs has never been mended——"

Mr. Schultzsky shuffled his feet uneasily, but gave no other sign of having heard her speech.

"And our front walk is so broken that it will be the death of somebody some day," continued Miss Billy. She paused for a response, but none came.

"When we came in here you promised to put the house in good repair for us," said the girl desperately, "but you have not kept your word. Everything that is new about the premises we have added. Theodore put up the fence, and has been puttering around the place ever since we moved in; the bill for painting and papering the house was sent to father (I never should have paid it if I had been in his place), although you promised to have it done. The whole house is shaky on its legs, and weak in its joints, and yet we are paying you big rent for it. I found out to-day that you are charging us five dollars a month more than you did the last tenants."

Did Miss Billy imagine it, or was there a gleam of avaricious triumph in the half-closed eyes? "You are not dealing fairly with us!" she exclaimed wrathfully. Then, in a more amiable tone, she added: "We want to be good tenants, you know; but aren't you going to make any of your promises good?"

Mr. Schultzsky took out his dingy bandanna and mopped his forehead. He made neither apology nor protest. "The rent is due," he said. Miss Billy's cheeks glowed as she meekly handed out the bills. "Maybe they'll make him more responsive," she thought to herself.

The landlord folded them, put them carefully into a huge wallet, and placing the rent account against the side of the house, receipted the paper in a queer cramped hand. Then thrusting it into her mechanical grasp, he turned, and without another word, shuffled off down the walk.

He hesitated at the gate and turned. "Good-morning, ma'am," he said. Then climbing into the rattle-trap, he drove rapidly away. Miss Billy, left alone on the doorstep, was torn by conflicting emotions. Angry as she was, she could not fail to see the humour in her ignominious defeat. And she was not the only one who was amused. The screen in Theodore's window came down with a bang, and a boyish voice chanted:

"B was once a little Bear,
Beary, wary, hairy, beary,
Taky cary, little bear."