ng nicer than any
old 'Face of a Girl' that you ever did?" she triumphed.

And Bertram, who, even to himself, had not dared whisper the
word exhibition, gave a tremulous laugh that was almost a sob, so
overwhelming was his sudden realization of what faith and confidence had
meant to Billy, his wife.

If there was still a lingering doubt in Bertram's mind, it must
have been dispelled in less than an hour after the Bohemian Ten Club
Exhibition flung open its doors on its opening night. Once again Bertram
found his picture the cynosure of all admiring eyes, and himself the
center of an enthusiastic group of friends and fellow-artists who vied
with each other in hearty words of congratulation. And when, later,
the feared critics, whose names and opinions counted for so much in his
world, had their say in the daily press and weekly reviews, Bertram
knew how surely indeed he had won. And when he read that "Henshaw's
work shows now a peculiar strength, a sort of reserve power, as it were,
which, beautiful as was his former work, it never showed before," he
smiled grimly, and said to Billy:

"I suppose, now, that was the fighting I did with my good left hand, eh,
dear?"

But there was yet one more drop that was to make Bertram's cup of joy
brim to overflowing. It came just one month after the Exhibition in the
shape of a terse dozen words from the doctor. Bertram fairly flew home
that day. He had no consciousness of any means of locomotion. He thought
he was going to tell his wife at once his great good news; but when he
saw her, speech suddenly fled, and all that he could do was to draw her
closely to him with his left arm and hide his face.

"Why, Bertram, dearest, what--what is it?" stammered the thoroughly
frightened Billy. "Has anything-happened?"

"No, no--yes--yes, everything has happened. I mean, it's going to
happen," choked the man. "Billy, that old chap says that I'm going to
have my arm again. Think of it--my good right arm that I've lost so
long!"

"_Oh, Bertram!_" breathed Billy. And she, too, fell to sobbing.

Later, when speech was more coherent, she faltered:

"Well, anyway, it doesn't make any difference _how_ many beautiful
pictures you p-paint, after this, Bertram, I _can't_ be prouder of any
than I am of the one your l--left hand did."

"Oh, but I have you to thank for all that, dear."

"No, you haven't," disputed Billy, blinking teary eyes; "but--" she
paused, then went on spiritedly, "but, a