“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.