“As if I could!” he disclaimed. But that afternoon he went into his long-deserted studio and hunted up his last unfinished picture. For some time he stood motionless before it; then, with a quick gesture of determination, he got out his palette, paints, and brushes. This time not until he had painted ten, a dozen, a score of strokes, did he drop his brush with a sigh and carefully erase the fresh paint on the canvas. The next day he worked longer, and this time he allowed a little, a very little, of what he had done to remain. The third day Billy herself found him at his easel. “I wonder--do you suppose I could?” he asked fearfully. “Why, dearest, of course you can! Haven't you noticed? Can't you see how much more you can do with your left hand now? You've _had_ to use it, you see. _I've_ seen you do a lot of things with it, lately, that you never used to do at all. And, of course, the more you do with it, the more you can!” “I know; but that doesn't mean that I can paint with it,” sighed Bertram, ruefully eyeing the tiny bit of fresh color his canvas showed for his long afternoon's work. “You wait and see,” nodded Billy, with so overwhelming a cheery confidence that Bertram, looking into her glowing face, was conscious of a curious throb of exultation, almost as if already the victory were his. But it was not always of Bertram's broken arm, nor even of his work that they talked. Bertram, hanging over the baby's crib to assure himself that the rosiness and the sparkle were really growing more apparent every day, used to wonder sometimes how ever in the world he could have been jealous of his son. He said as much one day to Billy. To Billy it was a most astounding idea. “You mean you were actually jealous of your own baby?” she gasped. “Why, Bertram, how could--And was that why you--you sought distraction and--Oh, but, Bertram, that was all my f-fault,” she quavered remorsefully. “I wouldn't play, nor sing, nor go to walk, nor anything; and I wore horrid frowzy wrappers all the time, and--” “Oh, come, come, Billy,” expostulated the man. “I'm not going to have you talk like that about _my wife!_” “But I did--the book said I did,” wailed Billy. “The book? Good heavens! Are there any books in this, too?” demanded Bertram. “Yes, the same one; the--the 'Talks to Young Wives,'” nodded Billy. And then, because some things had grown small to them, and some others great, they both laughed happily. But even this was not quite all; for one evening, very shyly, Billy brought out the chessboard. “Of course I can't play well,” she faltered; “and maybe you don't want to play with me at all.” But Bertram, when he found out why she had learned, was very sure he did want very much to play with her.