e asked in a choking voice, as she
conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the
afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause she
said: 'There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so
much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and
clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many
obligations you have already laid me under!'

'Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist,' replied the
young doctor.

'I must then renounce this desire,' said Mme G---- sighing.

The next morning Henry--so the little boy was called--having assisted
his mother and his sister Marie in their household labours, dressed
himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out.

'Go, my child,' said his mother; 'go and breathe a little fresh air:
your continual work is injurious to you.'

The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and
sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the
street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps towards the
drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at
the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this
academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an
elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the
richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was
breakfasting alone with his wife, when Henry entered.

'There, my dear,' He said to her, as he perceived Henry; 'there is the
cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to
do me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish
to say to me?'

'Sir, my father is very ill--the doctor fears that he may die: poor
mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would
you, sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray, sir, do not
refuse me!' said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on
the artist.

'Impossible, Henry--impossible!' replied the painter. 'I am paid three
thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at
present to finish.'

'But, my dear,' interposed his wife, 'it seems to me that this
portrait would take you but little time: think of the poor mother,
whose husband will so soon be lost to her for ever.'

'It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my
battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the