"I worked at it yesterday till the colors all ran together and I couldn't
tell much about it."

Johnny turned the easel, and Chip, looking, fell silent. Had HIS hand
guided the brush while that scene grew from blank canvas to palpitating
reality? Verily, he had "builded better than he knew." Something in
his throat gripped, achingly and dry.

"Did anybody see it yesterday?" asked the Little Doctor.

"No--not unless the kid--"
"I never said a word about it," denied Johnny, hastily and vehemently.
"I lied like the dickens. I said you had headache an' was tryin' t'
sleep it off. I kep' the Countess teeterin' around on her toes all
afternoon." Johnny giggled at the memory of it.

"Well, I'm going to call them all in and see what they say," declared
she, starting for the door.

"I don't THINK you will," began Chip, rebelliously, blushing over his
achievement like a girl over her graduation essay. "I don't want to be--"

"Well, we needn't tell them you did it," suggested she.

"Oh, if you're willing to shoulder the blame," compromised Chip,
much relieved. He hated to be fussed over.

The Little Doctor regarded him attentively a moment, smiled queerly to
herself and stood back to get a better view of the painting.