" that Billy could not tell
and be "fair." Billy, of course,--loyal little soul that she was,--had
sent him away at once. Was her hand not already pledged? That was why
she could not "help it-now." (Bertram writhed in agony at the thought.)
Since that meeting Arkwright had not been near the house. Billy had
found, however, that her heart had gone with Arkwright; hence the shadow
in her eyes, the nervousness in her manner, and the embarrassment that
she always showed at the mention of his name.

That Billy was still outwardly loyal to himself, and that she still kept
to her engagement, did not surprise Bertram in the least. That was like
Billy. Bertram had not forgotten how, less than a year before, this same
Billy had held herself loyal and true to an engagement with William,
because a wretched mistake all around had caused her to give her promise
to be William's wife under the impression that she was carrying out
William's dearest wish. Bertram remembered her face as it had looked all
those long summer days while her heart was being slowly broken; and he
thought he could see that same look in her eyes now. All of which only
goes to prove with what woeful skill Bertram had fashioned this Thing
that was looming before him as The Truth.

The exhibition of "The Bohemian Ten" was to open with a private view
on the evening of the twentieth of March. Bertram Henshaw's one
contribution was to be his portrait of Miss Marguerite Winthrop--the
piece of work that had come to mean so much to him; the piece of work
upon which already he felt the focus of multitudes of eyes.

Miss Winthrop was in Boston now, and it was during these early March
days that Bertram was supposed to be putting in his best work on the
portrait; but, unfortunately, it was during these same early March days
that he was engaged, also, in fashioning The Thing--and the two did not
harmonize.

The Thing, indeed, was a jealous creature, and would brook no rival.
She filled his eyes with horrid visions, and his brain with sickening
thoughts. Between him and his model she flung a veil of fear; and she
set his hand to trembling, and his brush to making blunders with the
paints on his palette.

Bertram saw The Thing, and saw, too, the grievous result of her
presence. Despairingly he fought against her and her work; but The Thing
had become full grown now, and was The Truth. Hence she was not to be
banished. She even, in a taunting way, seemed sometimes to be just