IT was hot, very hot, in Cherry Street. Miss Billy's garden bloomed as Paradise, but up and down the alley household garbage bubbled and boiled in the sun. The sweet peas on the fence were a marvellous cloud of pink, violet, crimson, purple and white. They rioted over the Hennesy pickets, and spread their fairy wings as if to descend on the other side;—but across the street Mr. Schultzsky's weeds flaunted in all the rank arrogance of a second crop.

Miss Billy was disheartened, but not defeated. "Of course I can't accomplish it all by myself," she thought, "and John Thomas is too tired at night to help and Theodore is working, too. But every child in the street that can handle a hoe shall be enlisted in the cause if I can accomplish it."

She went over to Mrs. Canary's to talk the matter over, and found Holly Belle in a kitchen that easily registered 110 degrees. Mrs. Canary was in bed with one of her "attacks," the twins, unwashed and sticky, were playing with a basket of potatoes on the floor: Ginevra, the little sister, was grumblingly washing the breakfast dishes, while Holly Belle, with signs of recent tears around her eyelashes, was binding up a badly burned arm.

"You see, there's bread-baking to-day," she said, as Miss Billy's deft fingers bound up the burn, "and maw's sick, and paw goes onto his beat at noon, and must have his dinner, and the twins are restless with the heat, and won't stay satisfied five minutes at a time with anything. The boys are off somewhere, and no good to anybody, and my own head aches so I can't hardly see. It aches all the time, now, anyway."

"I should think it would," said Miss Billy sympathetically. "Can't you let that fire go out? It's simply unbearable in here."

"No," said Holly Belle, "the bread's in the oven, an' there's pork an' cabbage cooking. I've got to get the potatoes peeled right away, or dinner'll be late."

Miss Billy reached for a kitchen apron that hung on a nail. "Well, I'll bathe the babies," she said: "I think that will make them feel better. Then I'll sweep up for you, and help with the dinner."

"You're awful good," said Holly Belle simply. Her eyes looked heavy, and her shoulders had a pathetic droop. "Jinny, if yer through with the dishpan, give it to Miss Billy to wash the twins in, and then go down to the store and fetch a pound of butter."

Miss Billy bathed the babies in a tiny pantry, away from the scorching blast of the cook stove, and clad them in clean, dark calico slips. Ginevra came with the butter, and was despatched with the twins in their carriage to the shady north side of the Lee house. Order slowly evolved from chaos. The kitchen was swept, the pantry put to rights, and Miss Billy, crimson in the face, and with her collar quite wilted, was preparing to set the table.

"Don't you think—Holly Belle," she suggested, "that it might be better to move the table into the other room? It's much cooler in there."

"We never have," answered Holly Belle dubiously. "We've always eat in the kitchen."

"Well, we'll try it this time, anyway,—and if your mother objects we'll not do it again. It's so hot in here, Holly Belle, it's positively dangerous! And as you can't take the stove out, it seems as though you would have to take yourselves out, that's all."

"I've been thinking," she went on, as she went back and forth from the table to the pantry, "that instead of having the children in the neighbourhood spend every Saturday morning with me, as they have been doing, I shall have them come every morning for two hours. That would help you, wouldn't it, Holly Belle? And I can just as well do it through the vacation. You could send the babies before nine, and I'd bathe them and be ready for the rest at nine o'clock.

"This child-garden, Holly Belle, is going to resolve itself into an Improvement Club. Every member who is old enough must pledge himself to one half-hour's service a day in keeping clean his own yard and alley, and the street in front of his house. The weeds must be kept down, the cesspools disinfected, and the garbage disposed of. Then another half hour might be pledged to household duties,—such as washing and wiping dishes, bringing in wood, carrying water, and making beds. They'll all subscribe to the conditions, I know, for the sake of sharing in the pleasures of the child-garden."

"Launkelot and Fridoline couldn't never wash and wipe dishes," said Holly Belle hopelessly. "They'd break them all up."

"Indeed they can, if they try," returned Miss Billy stoutly. "My brother Theodore can wash and wipe dishes as deftly as a girl,—and he could do it at their age, too."

"'Twould be an awful help," mused Holly Belle, "and our yard an' alley is a sight to behold, but I ain't got no time to clean it."

"Of course you haven't. But you are doing noble work in this kitchen every day,—and taking care of those babies beside. It's noble work, Holly Belle."

Holly Belle's lips quivered, and her tears fell. "I ain't like other girls," she sobbed. "I used to go to bed of nights an' dream I had a piano an' could play on it. An' when I'd wake up I'd be so disappointed it seemed to me I couldn't stand it. An' I used to go on hopin' and hopin' that I'd get one, an' learn, but I know it's too late now. I'm growin' on fourteen, already."

Miss Billy, taking in all the pathos of the starved little life, found no words to reply. "But the thing that hurts worst," went on Holly Belle, wiping her tears on her apron, "is that I can't go to school. I had to stop when Mikey was a baby, and then just as I got started again the twins came, and I guess I'll never go back. The teacher came to see maw, an' told her how quick I learned,—but it didn't do no good, an' I'll have to stay right here in this kitchen all the rest of my life."

Miss Billy crossed over to the drooping little figure, and put her arm about her. "Keep hoping, Holly Belle," she counselled: "Keep hoping, and keep on trying. I'm sure it will all come out right. I have a solemn conviction that when one wishes hard enough for a thing, it comes to pass. And so I am sure the school days will come again, and the piano and the lessons, too."

Holly Belle dried her tears. "You've made me feel almost sure of it, too," she said, with a smile. "I'm thankful for the help you've been to me with the work, Miss Billy,—and I'll send the children over in the morning."

It was that evening that Theodore, freshly arrayed in the glory of blue serge and starched linen, drew Miss Billy into a secluded corner. His neck, even as Mr. Hennesy had predicted, was burned to a deep red, and the blisters on his hands were hardening into calloused spots,—but there was no self pity in his manner as he handed his sister a five dollar gold piece.

"My first week's pay," he announced, proudly: "and thank you very much for the accommodation."

"Oh, I'd rather not take it now, Ted," demurred Miss Billy. "Wait until you've earned more."

"No indeed," said Theodore proudly. "Next week I shall pay father for my shoes, and after that, every cent of my money goes into the bank. Take it now, or never, Miss Billy."

"Well, I'll take it if I must, but I don't want to," grumbled his sister. "Say Ted, Beatrice and I are going over to call on Mr. Schultzsky's niece, Frances Lindsay, this evening. Mother saw her trunk arrive to-day, and thought we ought to. Won't you go with us?"

"No, I thank you," said Theodore. "To tell the truth, I've soured on the society of ladies. But if she's handsome, and wealthy, and under thirty, I may relent and call upon her some other evening."

"For my part, I think the idea of our going over there is ridiculous," scolded Beatrice. "I wouldn't, if mother didn't insist upon it. It's more than likely she can speak only Bohemian, as that other little niece does, and will run and hide upon our arrival."

"Well, we'll go, anyway," said Miss Billy. "Mother is right. The girl will feel very strange and lonely in that old house, and if she can't speak English we can at least shake hands and then sit and smile at her."

They took their way across the street, Beatrice very dainty in her white dress with a rose low in her hair,—Miss Billy in a black dress skirt and white shirt-waist, with a severely masculine collar and tie. The front door stood ajar, and after tapping several times Miss Billy ushered herself in. "It's the only way," she declared, in reply to Beatrice's horrified exclamation. "Mr. Schultzsky can't let us in, that little Bohemian girl won't let us in, and under the circumstances, I suppose the new niece can't make up her mind what to do."

There was the sound of a well-modulated masculine voice reading in Mr. Schultzsky's room. Miss Billy tapped gently, and the door was opened by a young man. In one swift glance she knew he was tall, with dark eyes and a ruddy skin, and wore glasses.

"I beg your pardon," she faltered. "We have called to inquire for Mr. Schultzsky, and to call upon his niece, Miss Frances Lindsay."

In the next instant, too, she was sure the young man was well bred. He gave Beatrice a chair, and turned on the student lamp without manifesting any embarrassment, while Miss Billy crossed to the old man's bedside, and extended her hand.

"I hope you are better, Mr. Schultzsky," she said. "Sister Beatrice and I have come to call upon——" For some undefined reason the words died away, and she stood with glowing cheeks and paralysed tongue.

"Sit down," said Mr. Schultzsky, pointing to a chair at the bedside. The young man was regarding Miss Billy with open humour shining in his dark eyes.

"I feel already acquainted with you, Miss Lee," he said, "as a good friend of my uncle's, and as a young lady who insists upon spelling my name 'ces.' I am Francis Lindsay!"

He was looking at Beatrice now, whose face was the picture of shocked propriety and haughtiness. Miss Billy's wits returned.

"It would be very funny," she thought, "if Bea didn't take it so tragically. But he is not at all to blame. He has tact, and is kind. I am the stupid one." Then she introduced Beatrice with a mischievous ring in her voice. "My sister Beatrice,—Mr. Francis Lindsay."

Mr. Schultzsky was feebly wagging his head and chuckling. "She iss a smart girl," he said,—"but she wass fooled dot time."

With a person less polished, the situation might have been deeply embarrassing,—but Mr. Schultzsky's great-nephew conversed entertainingly, with his arm resting easily on the table. He spoke of his native city of New York, of existing social relations, of his uncle's illness. He addressed his remarks to Miss Billy, but he glanced often at Beatrice, who sat cold and silent across the room.

"I trust you will give me permission to return the call," he said pleasantly, as at the end of ten minutes they rose to go. "I assure you I know what it is to be lonely, though I am not a girl."

"Do come," said Miss Billy cordially,—but Beatrice remained silent.

"Now with your usual propensity for doing stupid things, you have drawn us into a fine entanglement," scolded Beatrice, as they reached the sidewalk. "I never heard of anything so arrogant in my life as his asking if he might return the call. And it was not your place to give him permission, either. You quite forget you are my younger sister."

"I think him extremely courteous and high-bred," returned Miss Billy with spirit, "and his asking to call upon us was a delicate and kind thing to do, under the circumstances. But don't let us quarrel about him, Bea. How old do you suppose he is? I think he can't be over twenty-one,—but his grave manners make him appear older."

"I have no suppositions whatever upon such a subject," said Beatrice loftily.

"But at least, you cannot deny he is a gentleman?"

Beatrice raised her pretty eyebrows. "Into that I shall not inquire. It is enough for me that he is a relative of Mr. Schultzsky's."