Paint?
Why, Bertram, darling, of course you're going to paint, and better than you ever did before!" Bertram shook his head again; but this time he smiled, and patted Billy's cheek with the tip of his forefinger.
"As if I could!" he disclaimed.

But that afternoon he went into his long-deserted studio and hunted up his last unfinished picture.

For some time he stood motionless before it; then, with a quick gesture of determination, he got out his palette, paints, and brushes.

This time not until he had painted ten, a dozen, a score of strokes, did he drop his brush with a sigh and carefully erase the fresh paint on the canvas.
The next day he worked longer, and this time he allowed a little, a very little, of what he had done to remain.
The third day Billy herself found him at his easel.
"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.