t the other day," went on Billy, a
bit mischievously. "Her Cousin Jane sent on a rattle she'd made herself,
all soft worsted, with bells inside. It was a dear; but Marie was
horror-stricken. 'My baby have a rattle?' she cried. 'Why, what would
Cyril say? As if he could stand a rattle in the house!' And if she
didn't give that rattle to the janitor's wife that very day, while I was
there!"

"Humph!" sniffed Aunt Hannah again, as Billy rose to go. "Well, I'm
thinking Marie has still some things to learn in this world--and Cyril,
too, for that matter."

"I wouldn't wonder," laughed Billy, giving Aunt Hannah a good-by kiss.

CHAPTER XIII. PETE

Bertram Henshaw had no disquieting forebodings this time concerning his
portrait of Marguerite Winthrop when the doors of the Bohemian Ten Club
Exhibition were thrown open to members and invited guests. Just how
great a popular success it was destined to be, he could not know, of
course, though he might have suspected it when he began to receive the
admiring and hearty congratulations of his friends and fellow-artists on
that first evening.

Nor was the Winthrop portrait the only jewel in his crown on that
occasion. His marvelously exquisite "The Rose," and his smaller ideal
picture, "Expectation," came in for scarcely less commendation. There
was no doubt now. The originator of the famous "Face of a Girl" had come
into his own again. On all sides this was the verdict, one long-haired
critic of international fame even claiming openly that Henshaw had
not only equaled his former best work, but had gone beyond it, in both
artistry and technique.

It was a brilliant gathering. Society, as usual, in costly evening gowns
and correct swallow-tails rubbed elbows with names famous in the world
of Art and Letters. Everywhere were gay laughter and sparkling repartee.
Even the austere-faced J. G. Winthrop unbent to the extent of grim
smiles in response to the laudatory comments bestowed upon the pictured
image of his idol, his beautiful daughter.

As to the great financier's own opinion of the work, no one heard him
express it except, perhaps, the artist; and all that he got was a grip
of the hand and a "Good! I knew you'd fetch it this time, my boy!" But
that was enough. And, indeed, no one who knew the stern old man needed
to more than look into his face that evening to know of his entire
satisfaction in this portrait soon to be the most recent, and the most
cherished additio