wail of his violin from the garden, where
she had been gathering pears. That was how she knew where to find him
when she quickly appeared before him, rosy and flushed from her run to
the house and up the long flight of stairs.

As Peter lay there, he was gazing at the half-finished copy he had
been making of the head of an old man, for Peter had decided, since in
all probability he would be good for no active work such as Richard
had taken up, that he too would become an artist, like Bertrand
Ballard. To have followed his cousin would have delighted his heart,
for he had all the Scotchman's love of adventure, but, since that was
impossible, nothing was more alluring than the thought of fame and
success as an artist. He would not tie himself to Leauvite to get it.
He would go to Paris, and there he would do the things Bertrand had
been prevented from doing. Poor Bertrand! How he would have loved the
chance Peter Junior was planning for himself as he lay there dreaming
and studying the half-finished copy.

Suddenly he beheld Betty, standing directly in front of the work,
extending to him a folded bit of paper. "Here's a note from your
father," she cried.

Looking upon her thus, with eyes that had been filled with the aged,
rugged face on the canvas, Betty appealed to Peter as a lovely vision.
He had never noticed before, in just this way, her curious charm, but
these months of companionship and study with Bertrand had taught him
to see beauty understandingly, and now, as she stood panting a little,
with breath coming through parted lips and hair flying almost in the
wild way of her childhood, Peter saw, as if it were a revelation, that
she was lovely. He raised himself slowly and reached for the note
without taking his eyes from her face.

He did not open the letter, but continued to look in her eyes, at
which she turned about half shyly. "I heard your violin; that's how I
knew you were up here. Oh! Have you been painting on it again?"

"On my violin? No, I've been playing on it."

"No! Painting on the picture of your old man. I think you have it too
drawn out and thin. He's too hollow there under the cheek bone."

"Is he, Miss Critic? Well, thank your stars you're not."

"I know. I'm too fat." She rubbed her cheek until it was redder than
ever.

"What are you painting your cheeks for? There's color enough on them
as they are."

She made a little mouth at him. "I could paint your old man as well as
that, I k