dear?"

"Fell into a silly little hole covered with underbrush. But--oh, Billy,
what's the use? I did it, and I can't undo it--more's the pity!"

"Of course you can't, you poor boy," sympathized Billy; "and you sha'n't
be tormented with questions. We'll just be thankful 'twas no worse. You
can't paint for a while, of course; but we won't mind that. It'll just
give Baby and me a chance to have you all to ourselves for a time, and
we'll love that!'

"Yes, of course," sighed Bertram, so abstractedly that Billy bridled
with pretty resentment.

"Well, I like your enthusiasm, sir," she frowned. "I'm afraid you don't
appreciate the blessings you do have, young man! Did you realize what
I said? I remarked that you could be with _Baby_ and _me_," she
emphasized.

Bertram laughed, and gave his wife an affectionate kiss.

"Indeed I do appreciate my blessings, dear--when those blessings are
such treasures as you and Baby, but--" Only his doleful eyes fixed on
his injured arm finished his sentence.

"I know, dear, of course, and I understand," murmured Billy, all
tenderness at once.

They were not easy for Bertram--those following days. Once again he
was obliged to accept the little intimate personal services that he
so disliked. Once again he could do nothing but read, or wander
disconsolately into his studio and gaze at his half-finished "Face of
a Girl." Occasionally, it is true, driven nearly to desperation by the
haunting vision in his mind's eye, he picked up a brush and attempted
to make his left hand serve his will; but a bare half-dozen irritating,
ineffectual strokes were usually enough to make him throw down his
brush in disgust. He never could do anything with his left hand, he told
himself dejectedly.

Many of his hours, of course, he spent with Billy and his son, and they
were happy hours, too; but they always came to be restless ones before
the day was half over. Billy was always devotion itself to him--when she
was not attending to the baby; he had no fault to find with Billy. And
the baby was delightful--he could find no fault with the baby. But the
baby _was_ fretful--he was teething, Billy said--and he needed a great
deal of attention; so, naturally, Bertram drifted out of the nursery,
after a time, and went down into his studio, where were his dear, empty
palette, his orderly brushes, and his tantalizing "Face of a Girl." From
the studio, generally, Bertram went out on to the street.

Sometimes he