ill."

"Mrs. Smiley says he is dying," said Madge in a low tone of forced calm;
and she repeated the last words sadly to herself, "dying, O Raymond!"

"When was the doctor here?"

"We have had no doctor, sir."

"Why not? That has not been wise, Madge."

[Illustration: THE ARTIST'S VISIT.]

"We could not afford it, sir."

"There was the parish doctor."

"I knew nothing about him, sir; and I had nobody to tell me."

"Poor child, poor child!" and the artist was feeling the boy's pulse.
Raymond opened his eyes, and seeing a man by his side, said faintly,
"I've failed, father--I'll go to the shop--it's not done!"

"Hush, hush, my boy; we must not talk now." And then Mr. Smith beckoned
Madge into the next room. She followed him silently, and for a moment or
two her new friend stood looking into her pale, troubled face. Then he
laid his hand on her head, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke.

"I have a little daughter at home, Madge, who is about your age; and if
she were in trouble--;" suddenly his voice faltered, and he added
hurriedly, "may God grant that my Lilian may never be left as you are."

Madge lifted her eyes to his face, then clasping his hand, she said,
"Oh, sir, save Raymond; I will love you always, if you will save him.
Oh, do not let him die!"

"Keep up your brave little heart; I will do my best. Madge, if your
brother lives, he will some day be a great artist."

Again that glad, joyful light came into Madge's eyes, which the artist
had seen there once before. "I know it! I know it!" she cried. "Did you
like the picture, sir?"

"Yes, my child. I saw unmistakable signs of genius in it. I am buying it
myself, little Madge; will you receive the purchase-money?"

"No, no; wait till Raymond can have it himself. He must live!--he will,
he will!"

"Hush, my child; there is One above who only knows about that; he must
do as seemeth to him best. Now, Madge, go back to him; I will go and get
a friend of mine to come and see him."

Madge did as he bid her; and in about an hour Mr. Smith returned with a
doctor.

He looked very grave when he had examined his patient, and then beckoned
Mr. Smith away.

"I have very little hope of him," he said sorrowfully; "the prostration
of strength is fearful; I fear he will never rally; but he must have
stimulants now, and plenty of nourishment;--we must do what we can."

"Yes," said Mr. Smith warmly; "and if you save him, Morton, you will
have saved