two people in their world--two
people, and unutterable, incredible, overwhelming rapture and peace.
Then, very gradually it dawned over them that there was, after all,
something strange and unexplained in it all.

"But, dearest, what does it mean--you here like this?" asked Bertram
then. As if to make sure that she was "here, like this," he drew her
even closer--Bertram was so thankful that he did have one arm that was
usable.

Billy, on her knees by the couch, snuggled into the curve of the one arm
with a contented little sigh.

"Well, you see, just as soon as I found out to-night that you wanted me,
I came," she said.

"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 a