“That isn’t Julien’s father,” said the sculptress.  “He’s only an adoptive father.  But Julien adores him, as he ought to.  The real father, so I’ve heard, was a French gentleman—­”

“I don’t care who his father was!” cried Bobbie. (The Bonnie Lassie’s face took on the expression of an exclamation point.) “I can’t bear to think of his having to do servant’s work.  And I told him so yesterday.”

“Did you look like that while you were telling him?”

“Like what?  I suppose so.”

“And what did he do?”

“Do?  He didn’t do anything.”

“Then,” pronounced the Bonnie Lassie, “he’s a stick of wood—­hardwood—­with a knot-hole for a heart.”

“He isn’t!  Well, perhaps he is.  He was very horrid at the last.”

“About what?”

“About taking money.”

“I’m a prophetess!  And you’re a patroness.  Born in us, I suppose.  You did try to give him money.”

“Just to loan it.  Enough so that he could go away to study and paint.  He wouldn’t even let me do that; so I—­I—­I offered to buy the picture of me, and he said—­he said—­Cecily, do you think he’s sometimes a little queer in his head?”

“Not in the head, necessarily. What did he say?”

“He said he’d bought it himself at the highest price ever paid.  And he said it so obstinately that I saw it was no use, so I just told him that I hoped I’d see him when I came back—­”

“Back from where?  Are you going away?”

“Yes; didn’t I tell you?  On a three months’ cruise.”

“Had you told him that?”

“Of course.  That’s when I tried to get him to take the money.  Cecily—­” The girl’s voice shook a little.  “You’ll tell him, won’t you, that he must keep on painting?”

“Why?  Doesn’t he intend to?”

“He said he’d painted himself out and he didn’t think he’d ever look at color again.”

“He will,” said the Bonnie Lassie wisely and comfortably.  “Grief is just as driving a taskmaster as lo—­as other emotions.”

“Grief!” The girl’s color ebbed.  “Cecily!  You don’t think I’ve hurt him?”

The Bonnie Lassie caught her in a sudden hug.

“Bobbie, do you know what I’d do in your place?”

“No.  What?”

“I’d go right—­straight—­back to Julien Tenney’s studio.”  She paused impressively.

“Yes?” said the other faintly.

“And I’d walk right—­straight—­up to Julien Tenney—­” Another pause, even more impressive.

“I d-d-don’t think I’d—­he’d—­”

“And I’d say to him:  ‘Julien, will you marry me?’ Like that.”

“Oh!” said Bobbie in outraged amazement.

“And maybe—­” continued the Bonnie Lassie judicially:  “maybe I’d kiss him.  Yes.  I think I would.”

Suddenly all the bright softness of Bobbie’s large eyes dissolved in tears.  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she sobbed.