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, anyhow, I--I don't believe any one--not even Kate--can say _now_ that--that I've been a hindrance to you in your c-career!” “Hindrance!” scoffed Bertram, in a tone that left no room for doubt, and with a kiss that left even less, if possible. Billy, for still another minute, was silent; then, with a wistfulness that was half playful, half serious, she sighed: “Bertram, I believe being married is something like clocks, you know, 'specially at the first.” “Clocks, dear?”