and
in another minute she had brought the little tray to his side. "Now what
is it, Raymond?"

"Well, Madge, I've been thinking a great deal, and I've come to the
conclusion that it's right for me to go to the shop. I can't rise to
fame in painting without some teaching, and I can't get that, and I must
earn money for you."

"But, Raymond, that picture is sold. You know Mr. Smith brought the
money the other day. Why should not others be sold also?"

"And what are you to do meantime, little woman?"

Madge was amused at the grave elder-brother tone, and answered, "As I
have done before. But let us consult Mr. Smith."

"Very well; but he can't know both sides of the question. Nobody but an
artist could understand what it is to me to give up painting--not even
you, Madge."

Now Mr. Smith had charged Madge to keep it a strict secret from Raymond
that he was an artist. He wished to watch him quietly, for there was a
little scheme of benevolence in the good man's head, which he wanted to
carry out if possible. Many a time had Madge found herself on the point
of telling Raymond about the sitting, and Mr. Smith's studio, and the
lovely pictures about it; but she kept her counsel bravely, and had her
reward. Raymond often questioned her as to how she had made acquaintance
with Mr. Smith, but she always told him it was through Mr. Jeffery, and
turned the conversation; and by degrees his curiosity abated, he became
content to receive him as an old friend, and learned to look forward to
his visits as one of his greatest treats.

But with this secret in her possession, it was hardly to be wondered at
that Madge smiled when Raymond deplored Mr. Smith's probable want of
sympathy in his favourite pursuit; but she only said, "He must have some
taste for painting, or he would not have bought your picture."

"You little flatterer! he probably did that because he had a fancy for
you."

At this moment Mrs. Smiley entered the room. She was the bearer of a
letter which had just been left by the postman.

It bore a foreign post-mark, and the children knew that it was their
father's hand-writing. It contained but a few lines, evidently written
in haste.

"MY DEAR CHILDREN,--I have got an appointment
abroad, which will detain me for a long time,--for
how long I cannot say. I wish I could have you
with me--but this is impossible. I send you L5. It
is all I can do at present. Raymond