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The attitude of the servant, the splendor of the furnishings, the stateliness of the

great hall, and the apartments opening upon it--all had whispered to him that he

did not "belong."

And now Barbara, clothed in some wondrous foreign creation, belied by her very

appearance the expression that suffused her eyes.

No, Billy Byrne, the mucker, did not belong there. Nor ever could he belong, more

than Barbara ever could have "belonged" on Grand Avenue. And Billy Byrne knew

it now. His heart went cold. The bottom seemed suddenly to have dropped out of

his life.

Bravely he had battled to forget this wonderful creature, or, rather, his hopeless

love for her--her he could never forget. But the note from her, and the sight of her

had but served to rekindle the old fire within his breast.

He thought quickly. His own life or happiness did not count. Nothing counted

now but Barbara. He had seen the lovelight in her eyes. He thanked God that he

had realized what it all would have meant, before he let her see that he had seen

it.

I've been back several months," he said presently, in answer to her question;

but I got sense enough to stay where I belong. Gee! Wouldn't I look great comin'

up here buttin' in, wit youse bunch of highlifes?"

Billy slapped his thigh resoundingly and laughed in stentorian tones that caused

the eyebrows of the sensitive Smith on the floor above to elevate in shocked

horror.

Den dere was de mills. I couldn't break away from me work, could I, to chase a

bunch of skirts?"

Barbara felt a qualm of keen disappointment that Billy had fallen again into the

old dialect that she had all but eradicated during those days upon distant

"Manhattan Island."

"I wouldn't o' come up atal," he went on, "if I hadn't o' read in de poiper how

youse an' Mallory had busted. I t'ought I'd breeze in an' see wot de trouble was."

His eyes had been averted, mostly, as he talked. Now he swung suddenly upon

her.

"He's on de square, ain't he?" he demanded.

145

The Mucker