direction and give it to him when you find his house;" and Mr. Jeffery hastily wrote a few lines upon a piece of paper, and handed it to Madge.

Mr. Herbert Smith, the great artist. Yes! she had heard Raymond speak of his pictures—she would go; there was a gleam of hope before her; she would take Raymond's picture to him; he could not fail to discover how clever it was—Raymond could only be appreciated by master minds, and this was one of them. It was a dull wet day, and the streets looked dark and dingy; the rain was driving in her face, and her heart was with Raymond in the garret, where he was tossing in restless fever; but the brave little maiden went on steadily, until she reached Mr. Herbert Smith's door.

She rang at the bell, and asked to see the artist. The servant, well accustomed to receiving every variety in the way of visitors to his master, models, &c., &c., ushered her up a long stair into the studio.

Why, there sat the gentleman who had once looked so kindly at her in the picture-shop; she had often wondered who he could be.

"A little girl to see you, sir," said the servant, and then withdrew. Mr. Smith was reading his newspaper, seated in an easy-chair, arrayed in dressing-gown and slippers, with a cigar in his mouth, and a cup of fragrant coffee by his side.

He turned round impatiently, but when he saw Madge, his expression changed to one of easy good-humour.

"Mr. Jeffery—please, sir, he told me to come to you," said little Madge, while she looked down on the ground.

"Oh, yes, I remember; and so you have come to give me a sitting?"

"A what, sir?"

"A sitting, my child; to let me paint your eyes and hair."

"Please sir, I came to show you this; Raymond's ill;" and she held out the cherished picture.

THE GREAT ARTIST.

"Ah, yes; lay it down. I'll look at it presently; but, meanwhile, I must lose no time in transferring you to canvas. Now, then, take your place, so; your head a little more turned to the light." And in a few minutes, with easy, rapid strokes, the artist was progressing in his work.

"And what is your name, my little girl?" he asked presently.

"Madge Leicester," she replied softly.

"Your eyes have grown sadder than they were when I last saw you, Madge!" They were very sad then, for large tears were gathering in them, and rolling down the thin white cheeks.

She raised her hand and dashed them away.

"What is it all about?" said Mr. Smith.

"O Raymond, Raymond!" she faltered.

"Is Raymond your brother?"

"Yes."

"Have you a father and mother?"

"My mother is dead, and my father is away, and Raymond is ill."

"Poor child, where do you live?"

Madge told him.

"And does no one care for you?"

"Oh yes, Raymond does."

"But I mean, does no one do anything for you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Smiley is minding him while I'm out!"

"How did you come to leave him to-day?"

A quick flush came to Madge's cheek; she was ashamed to confess their poverty; but after a moment she added, "I wanted to sell Raymond's picture."

"Does Raymond like painting?"

Madge's face lit up with a sudden brightness. "Yes, yes! he loves it—he delights in it—he says it is his life."

"Poor boy, he does not know what up-hill work it is; he thinks it is mere fancy play, I suppose?"

"I don't think he does, sir."

"Has he ever had teaching?"

"Only a few lessons from an artist who had the down-stair rooms in the last house where we lodged."

Mr. Smith came over suddenly, and unfastened Madge's hair; it fell in golden ripples all over her neck. The light was shining upon it, and the sunbeams danced about it, making it in some places to resemble—

"In gloss and hue, the chestnut, when the shell
Divides threefold to show the fruit within;"

and in others there were luxuriant masses of rich deep brown, clustering in curls about her shoulders. For a moment the artist stood lost in admiration; then he silently resumed his work. It was an enjoyment to him, as Madge could see from the pleasant smile that played around his lips, and the kindly look in his eyes, when he glanced at her; but the poor, little, anxious sister was only longing for the time to be over, that she might return to Raymond's side; and when at last Mr. Smith laid down his brushes and pallette, saying, "I will not keep you longer to-day," she sprang to her feet joyfully.

"Will you come again soon, Madge?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, if I can!"

"Well, this is for your first sitting;" and he held her out half-a-crown. For a moment she hesitated, then she thought of Raymond, and the nourishment he so much needed, and she took it. "And about the picture, sir?" she asked wistfully.

"Oh, yes, about the picture," said Mr. Smith, taking it up; but at this moment he was interrupted; the servant announced a visitor, and he had only time to add, "I will tell you about the picture the next time you come, little Madge; good-bye;" and then she had to go away.

Back through the dreary streets, to that dreary home; back to that garret room, to that lonely watching, to that brother who lay so near the borders of the grave, though Madge knew it not. How often we pass in the crowded thoroughfare some sad suffering hearts, hurrying back to scenes such as these; it may be that they touch us in the crowd, and yet we know nothing of the burden which they carry; God help them! Let us thank him if we have light hearts ourselves; and let us remember that each load that we lighten leaves one less sad face and heavy heart in the world about us.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FRIEND.

It was Saturday evening, about five o'clock, when Mrs. Smiley was called up from the kitchen by hearing that a gentleman wanted to speak to her. She came up, smoothing down her apron with her hands, which were not of the cleanest.

"Do two children of the name of Leicester live here?"

"Yes, sir, surely; at least there were two of 'em a couple of hours ago, but I can't rightly say whether the lad's alive yet."

"What! is he so ill, then?"

"Ay, ay, sir, ill enough, I warrant."

"I will go up to them."

"Very well, sir; I'm sure if you're a friend that'll do something for them, I'm right glad to see you, for they sorely need one."

Mr. Smith, for it was he, followed Polly's guidance to Raymond's room, then thanking her, he knocked at the door himself, and entered.

Madge was leaning over the sick boy, holding a glass of water to his lips; and as she looked round, Mr. Smith thought he had never seen a face so strangely and sadly altered as hers. It had lost nearly all its childishness—it looked so old, and womanly, with a weight of