a
quiet hour for heart-to-heart talks between the two who so anxiously and
joyously hailed every rosy tint and fleeting sparkle. And there was
so much to tell, so much to hear, so much to talk about! And always,
running through everything, was that golden thread of joy, beside which
all else paled--that they had Baby and each other. As if anything else
mattered!

To be sure, there was Bertram's arm. Very early in their talks Billy
found out about that. But Billy, with Baby getting well, was not to be
daunted, even by this.

"Nonsense, darling--not paint again, indeed! Why, Bertram, of course you
will," she cried confidently.

"But, Billy, the doctor said," began Bertram; but Billy would not even
listen.

"Very well, what if he did, dear?" she interrupted. "What if he did
say you couldn't use your right arm much again?" Billy's voice broke
a little, then quickly steadied into something very much like triumph.
"You've got your left one!"

Bertram shook his head.

"I can't paint with that."

"Yes, you can," insisted Billy, firmly. "Why, Bertram, what do you
suppose you were given two arms for if not to fight with both of them?
And I'm going to be ever so much prouder of what you paint now, because
I'll know how splendidly you worked to do it. Besides, there's Baby. As
if you weren't ever going to paint for Baby! Why, Bertram, I'm going to
have you paint Baby, one of these days. Think how pleased he'll be to
see it when he grows up! He's nicer, anyhow, than any old 'Face of a
Girl' you ever did. Paint? Why, Bertram, darling, of course you're going
to paint, and better than you ever did before!"

Bertram shook his head again; but this time he smiled, and patted
Billy's cheek with the tip of his forefinger.

"As if I could!" he disclaimed. But that afternoon he went into his
long-deserted studio and hunted up his last unfinished picture. For
some time he stood motionless before it; then, with a quick gesture of
determination, he got out his palette, paints, and brushes. This time
not until he had painted ten, a dozen, a score of strokes, did he drop
his brush with a sigh and carefully erase the fresh paint on the canvas.
The next day he worked longer, and this time he allowed a little, a very
little, of what he had done to remain.

The third day Billy herself found him at his easel.

"I wonder--do you suppose I could?" he asked fearfully.

"Why, dearest, of course you can! Haven't you noticed? Can't you see h