es."

"Very well," and the patient little sister dropped the toasting-fork,
and folded her hands in her lap, with the scorching blaze playing on her
forehead and cheek, and sparkling in her deep brown eyes.

The boy went on with rapid, bold strokes, while a smile played over his
compressed lips as he glanced at Madge every few moments.

"The very thing I have been watching for--that warm, delicious
glow--that red light slanting over her face;--glorious!" and he shook
back the hair from his forehead, and worked on unconscious of how the
minutes flew by.

"Raymond, it is very hot."

"There--one moment more, please, Madge."

One minute--two--three, fled by, and then Raymond threw down his brush
and came over to his sister's side.

"Poor little Madge," and he laid his hand coaxingly on her silky hair.
"Perhaps you have made my fortune."

This was some small consolation for having roasted her face, and she
went to look at the picture. "I'm not as pretty as that, Raymond."

[Illustration: "FACES IN THE FIRE."]

"Well, artists may idealize a little; may they not?"

"Yes. What is this to be called?"

"Faces in the Fire."

"Shall you sell it?"

"I shall try."

[Illustration: THE COTTAGE IN THE COUNTRY.]

Raymond Leicester had not a prepossessing face; it was heavy, and to a
casual observer, stupid. He had dark hazel eyes, shaded by an
overhanging brow and rather sweeping eyelashes; a straight nose, and
compressed lips, hiding a row of defective teeth; a high massive
forehead and light hair, which was seldom smooth, but very straight.
This he had a habit of tossing back with a jerk when he was excited; and
sometimes the dull eyes flashed with a very bright sparkle in them when
he caught an idea which pleased him,--for Raymond was an artist, not by
profession, but because it was in his heart to paint, and he could not
help himself. He was sixteen now, and Madge was twelve. Madge was the
only thing in the world that he really cared for, except his pictures.
Their mother was dead, Madge could hardly remember her; but Raymond
always had an image before him of a tender, sorrowful woman, who used
to hold him in her arms, and whisper to him, while the hot tears fell
upon his baby cheeks,--"_You_ will comfort me, my little son. _You_ will
take care of your mother and of baby Madge." And he remembered the
cottage in the country where they had lived, the porch where the
rose-tree grew, the orchard and the moss-grown we