He looked from the painting to the original—the work was no amateurish daub, but worthy of a master.
Could it be possible she had painted it? She was a genius.
At first delighted expressions arose, and then, as the old gentleman raised his hand, these died away again.
All eyes were turned upon Joe.
He stood there as if petrified—his eyes were glued upon the picture of his wife, and he hardly seemed to breathe.
Then he slowly turned his gaze upon the same face in flesh and blood.
She looked at him, still blushing—tears were in her sweet eyes—she smiled through them.
Joe forgot where he was—he only remembered that he had wronged that dear little woman by harboring thoughts that reflected on her love and purity of heart.
Another instant he was at her side, had clasped her hand, and falling on his knees before her, kissed the little member whose cunning had wrought such wonders upon the canvas.
The others believed it was mute adoration that took him to her feet—regard for genius—and they thought all the more of Joe Leslie because he could appreciate a gift as well as a good wife.