“You darling! That was--” Bertram stopped suddenly. A puzzled frown showed below the fantastic bandage about his head. “'As soon as,'” he quoted then scornfully. “Were you ever by any possible chance thinking I _didn't_ want you?” Billy's eyes widened a little. “Why, Bertram, dear, don't you see? When you were so troubled that the picture didn't go well, and I found out it was about me you were troubled--I--” “Well?” Bertram's voice was a little strained. “Why, of--of course,” stammered Billy, “I couldn't help thinking that maybe you had found out you _didn't_ want me.” “_Didn't want you!_” groaned Bertram, his tense muscles relaxing. “May I ask why?” Billy blushed. “I wasn't quite sure why,” she faltered; “only, of course, I thought of--of Miss Winthrop, you know, or that maybe it was because you didn't care for _any_ girl, only to paint--oh, oh, Bertram! Pete told us,” she broke off wildly, beginning to sob. “Pete told you that I didn't care for any girl, only to paint?” demanded Bertram, angry and mystified. “No, no,” sobbed Billy, “not that. It was all the others that told me that! Pete told Aunt Hannah about the accident, you know, and he said--he said--Oh, Bertram, I _can't_ say it! But that's one of the things that made me know I _could_ come now, you see, because I--I wouldn't hinder you, nor slay your Art, nor any other of those dreadful things if--if you couldn't ever--p-paint again,” finished Billy in an uncontrollable burst of grief. “There, there, dear,” comforted Bertram, patting the bronze-gold head on his breast. “I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about--except the last; but I know there _can't_ be anything that ought to make you cry like that. As for my not painting again--you didn't understand Pete, dearie. That was what they were afraid of at first--that I'd lose my arm; but that danger is all past now. I'm loads better. Of course I'm going to paint again--and better than ever before--_now!_” Billy lifted her head. A look that was almost terror came to her eyes. She pulled herself half away from Bertram's encircling arm. “Why, Billy,” cried the man, in pained surprise. “You don't mean to say you're _sorry_ I'm going to paint again!” “No, no! Oh, no, Bertram--never that!” she faltered, still regarding him with fearful eyes. “It's only--for _me_, you know. I _can't_ go back now, and not have you--after this!--even if I do hinder you, and--” “_Hinder me!_ What are you talking about, Billy?” Billy drew a quivering sigh. “Well, to begin with, Kate said--” “Good heavens! Is Kate in _this_, too?” Bertram's voice was savage now. “Well, she wrote a letter.” “I'll warrant she did! Great Scott, Billy! Don't you know Kate by this time?” “Y-yes, I said so, too. But, Bertram, what she wrote was true. I found it everywhere, afterwards--in magazines and papers, and even in Marie.”