Her heart had never been hotter than one morning when, the gem of his finished Italian studies having been rejected by the committee of a minor exhibition, she went down to the studio to give vent to her indignation. At breakfast Jimmie had laughed and kissed her and told her not to drop tears into his coffee. He would send the picture to the Academy, where it would be hung on the line and make him famous. He refused to be downhearted and talked buoyantly of other things. But Aline felt that it was only for her sake that he hid his bitter disappointment, and an hour later she could bear the strain of silence no longer. The door of the studio was open. The girl's footstep was soft, and, not hearing it, he did not turn as she entered. For a few seconds she stood watching him; feeling shy, embarrassed, an intruder upon unexpected sacred things. Jimmie's mind was far away from minor exhibitions. He was sitting on his painting-stool, chin in hand, looking at a picture on the easel. On his face was unutterable pain, in his eyes an agony of longing. Aline caught her breath, frightened at the revelation. The eyes of the painted Norma smiled steadfastly into his. The horrible irony of it smote the girl. Another catch at the breath became a choking sob. Jimmie started, and as if a magic hand had passed across his features, the pain vanished, and Aline saw the homely face again with its look of wistful kindness. Overwrought, she broke into a passion of weeping. Jimmie put his arms about her and soothed her. What did the rejection of a picture matter? It was part of the game of painting. She must be his own brave little girl and smile at the rubs of fortune. But Aline shook the head buried on his shoulder, and stretched out a hand blindly towards the portrait. “It's that. I can't bear it.” An impossible thought shot through him. He drew away from her and caught her wrists somewhat roughly, and tried to look at her; but she bowed her head. “What do you mean, my child?” he asked curtly, with bent brows. Women are lightning-witted in their interpretation of such questions. The blood flooded her face, and her tears dried suddenly and she met his glance straight. “Do you think I'm jealous? Do you suppose I have n't known? I can't bear you to suffer. I can't bear her not to believe in you. I can't bear her not to love you.” Jimmie let go her wrists and stood before her full of grateful tenderness, quite at a loss for words. He looked whimsically at the flushed, defiant little face; he shook her by the shoulder and turned away. “My valiant tin soldier,” he said. It was an old name for her, dating from nursery days, when they thought and talked according to the gospel of Hans Christian Andersen.