He noticed that there was some little secret among a number of those present—Lillian, all blushes and confusion, was being consulted by an old gentleman with a white beard. Although Eric had declared he was almost famished he would not leave the rooms now for supper—something was on the _tapis_, and he was bound to see it out. Supper could wait. Ah! it came at last. The elderly gentleman rapped on a table. Silence ensued. All eyes were bent on him, all but those of Joe Leslie, and his blazing orbs rested on the blushing face of Lillian—before he learned all he wanted to prove that he no longer entertained the slightest suspicion regarding her. “Friends, we have spent a very pleasant evening at the house of our neighbor—we all cherish Joe Leslie and his charming wife as among those whose names will never leave the tablets of our memory—a devoted couple, loving, kind and gentle, whom it is an honor to know. “Before we part to-night, it is my pleasure to officiate at a little surprise—I am going to let our friend Leslie see himself as others see him—in brief, I shall introduce him to himself. “My grandchild Barbara and Mrs. Leslie have always possessed an artistic temperament. They consulted with me about it, and I took some of their amateur work to a friend who is a well-known artist. “The upshot of it all is that for a month past Barbara has been flitting over here at ten o’clock every morning through the gate we have in our back fence, and the two have been taking lessons in painting with astonishing success. “This evening I was astonished to find a fine oil painting of myself, true to nature, on my drawing-room wall—I had not dreamed my grandchild was so gifted. “And now for our fair Lillian’s birthday gift to her husband—bring them forth, friends.” Out from the mysterious closet came two gold-framed paintings—they were placed on easels prepared for them, in front of the astonished Joe. The faces were those of himself and his wife, astonishingly well done. He hardly glanced at his own, but his eyes were glued upon the counterfeit resemblance of his dear wife—done by her hand too. Eric was amazed. He looked from the painting to the original—the work was no amateurish daub, but worthy of a master. Could it be possible she had painted it? She was a genius. At first delighted expressions arose, and then, as the old gentleman raised his hand, these died away again. All eyes were turned upon Joe. He stood there as if petrified—his eyes were glued upon the picture of his wife, and he hardly seemed to breathe. Then he slowly turned his gaze upon the same face in flesh and blood. She looked at him, still blushing—tears were in her sweet eyes—she smiled through them. Joe forgot where he was—he only remembered that he had wronged that dear little woman by harboring thoughts that reflected on her love and purity of heart.