pproved of the church-wedding idea, the two were
married in the Annex living-room at noon on the fifteenth as originally
planned, in spite of Mrs. Kate Hartwell's letter.

It was soon after the wedding that Bertram told Billy he wished she
would sit for him with Bertram, Jr.

"I want to try my hand at you both together," he coaxed.

"Why, of course, if you like, dear," agreed Billy, promptly, "though I
think Baby is just as nice, and even nicer, alone."

Once again all over Bertram's studio began to appear sketches of Billy,
this time a glorified, tender Billy, with the wonderful mother-love in
her eyes. Then, after several sketches of trial poses, Bertram began his
picture of Billy and the baby together.

Even now Bertram was not sure of his work. He knew that he could not yet
paint with his old freedom and ease; he knew that his stroke was not so
sure, so untrammeled. But he knew, too, that he had gained wonderfully,
during the summer, and that he was gaining now, every day. To Billy he
said nothing of all this. Even to himself he scarcely put his hope into
words; but in his heart he knew that what he was really painting his
"Mother and Child" picture for was the Bohemian Ten Club Exhibition in
March--if he could but put upon canvas the vision that was spurring him
on.

And so Bertram worked all through those short winter days, not always
upon the one picture, of course, but upon some picture or sketch that
would help to give his still uncertain left hand the skill that had
belonged to its mate. And always, cheering, encouraging, insisting on
victory, was Billy, so that even had Bertram been tempted, sometimes,
to give up, he could not have done so--and faced Billy's grieved,
disappointed eyes. And when at last his work was completed, and the
pictured mother and child in all their marvelous life and beauty seemed
ready to step from the canvas, Billy drew a long ecstatic breath.

"Oh, Bertram, it _is_, it is the best work you have ever done." Billy
was looking at the baby. Always she had ignored herself as part of the
picture. "And won't it be fine for the Exhibition!"

Bertram's hand tightened on the chair-back in front of him. For a moment
he could not speak. Then, a bit huskily, he asked:

"Would you dare--risk it?"

"Risk it! Why, Bertram Henshaw, I've meant that picture for the
Exhibition from the very first--only I never dreamed you could get it so
perfectly lovely. _Now_ what do you say about Baby bei