"Well?"

"You are not coming back for a month. If during that time I can sell one of my pictures, and can hand you over a reasonable sum of money, may I go on painting?"

His father thought for a moment, then laughed. "Yes, safe enough.

Perhaps you'll know what it is to be hungry before the month's out, and will be glad enough to leave off your dabbling."

Then he stood up--patted Madge's head--went to the door, and came back again as if seized with a new impulse--shook hands with Raymond, and kissed his little daughter's forehead. "Good-bye, children; take care of yourselves," and he went away. Then Madge came to Raymond's side, and he laid his head upon her shoulder with a low piteous cry.

"Hush, darling, hush," she whispered. "It will all come right, don't fear. Let us trust G.o.d; he has given you this talent for painting, and he will teach you how to use it. There's a whole month, and who knows what may happen in that time! You may become famous." She went on earnestly; but he took no notice--only pressed his hands tighter and closer over his throbbing forehead.

"Raymond, I know you will be an artist--a great one--some day,"

whispered Madge.

"Never, never, if I am to be ground down in a shop," he groaned.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LITTLE COMFORTER.]

"You will, you will," she answered, throwing her arm round his neck. "If you keep up a brave, strong heart, and are not discouraged. n.o.body can do anything if they lose heart."

"But to be always, always working, and to have no success. O Madge, it is so hard and bitter!"

"No success! Why, Raymond, if you'd only heard how the errand-boys praised the way you had done the workman's basket of tools in the _Welcome_. It was a success in itself."

In spite of himself Raymond laughed, and Madge was satisfied. She went on brightly. "Some day I shall be so proud to be the sister of Mr.

Raymond Leicester, the great painter, whose picture will be one of the gems in the Royal Academy some year or other; and we shall glory in you."

"Not he--never; he would _never_ care."

"Oh, he would--he would; and if he didn't, you would be mine--all mine,"

she added softly, as she laid her hand on his arm.

Raymond looked up suddenly. "Madge, you are a witch, I think. I wonder what those men do who have no sisters--poor fellows;" and then he kissed her.

There was a glad light in Madge's eyes then. He so seldom did this, except for good-night and good-morning, that she knew what it meant. She was very silent for a few minutes, then sprang up, exclaiming, "Now we must have tea, and then you have your etching to do, and I am going to pay up the rent, and then I'll read to you, and do my sums."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER III.

THE FEVER.

And Raymond did work. Madge watched him with hopeful pride, and seldom stirred from his side. Their small store of money was nearly gone, and there seemed but little likelihood of a fresh supply.

Raymond's hopes were bound up in the picture he was then engaged upon.

If only he could finish that, he felt sure that he could sell it. There was a feverish light in his eyes, a burning flush upon his cheeks, while he worked. He spoke seldom; but Madge saw him raise his hand sometimes to his forehead as if in pain. The picture was nearly done, and Raymond looked up for a minute one morning, and saw that the sun was shining brightly down on the sea of roofs and chimney-pots which for the most part const.i.tuted the view from their garret window, and then he said to Madge, "Go out, and get a breath of fresh air; it is stifling work for you to be always up here."

"Shan't you want me to mix your colours, Raymond?"

"No; go. I should rather you went."

She put on her bonnet, and then stood for one moment looking at his work. "I wish you would come with me; it would do you good, and rest you."

Raymond gave a wearying sigh. "No rest for me yet, Madge. I must toil on until this is done. I can't rest when I go to bed. I am thinking all night when will the morning come, that I may be at work again. No, no; there is no rest until this is sold. Do you know that in a day or two we shall be penniless and starving?"

Madge looked up at him with a smile. "No, Raymond, we shan't be left to starve; don't fear."

Raymond looked doubtful, and went on with his work, and Madge went out.

She felt very lonely and sad as she wandered through the crowded, busy streets, and gazed into the faces of the pa.s.sers-by, all were so completely wrapped up in their own concerns. None knew her history; none would care to know it. What did it matter to any one of that moving throng if she and Raymond died?

Almost unconsciously she bent her steps in the direction of the colour-shop. One hurried glance she cast at the window, and then turned away with a sickening heart.

Raymond's picture was still there.

She went home, and ascended the long flight of stairs with a slow, hesitating step. For a moment she paused at the door of their own room; she heard a groan within, and hastily went in. Her first glance was directed to the easel in the window; but Raymond was not there. Another look discovered him lying on the floor with his head pressed against the ground.

"Raymond, Raymond!" she cried as she threw herself down by him. "Dear Raymond, what is the matter?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE COLOUR-SHOP WINDOW.]

"O Madge, my head, my head! I could not bear it any longer."

He raised it for a moment, and Madge caught a sight of his fevered cheeks and heavy tired eyes. She thought for an instant what was best to be done, then ran down-stairs to call their landlady. Now, Mrs. Smiley was in the midst of her cooking operations, and as she bent over her large saucepan, she did not like being interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of her top lodgers.

"What do you want? Don't you see I'm busy?" she said roughly, as she turned a very red face round from the fire to Madge.

But Madge, in her terror for Raymond, gained courage. "If you please, ma'am, do come and see Raymond; he is so ill, and I don't know what to do."

"And who's to take this saucepan off, I should like to know, or baste the meat? Do you think I'm to be at the beck and call of top-flight lodgers, who only pay five shillings a-week, and that not regular. I can tell you then that you're in the wrong box, young woman, so you'd best be off."

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN UNGRACIOUS LANDLADY.]

Madge turned to go, but still stood irresolute, and Mrs. Smiley, looking round to enforce her injunction, caught a sight of her wistful, terrified face. The little girl went away as directed; but as soon as she was gone, Mrs. Smiley opened the door of the back-kitchen, and called out, "Here, you Polly, come up here, and keep an eye on this dinner. Now keep basting the meat properly; for if it's burnt, I'll baste you when I come back;" and then she followed Madge up-stairs. She found her kneeling beside Raymond, supporting his head upon her shoulder.

"Well, Mr. Raymond, so you don't find yourself very well!"

A groan was her only answer, and Madge looked imploringly at her.

"You'd best go to bed, sir, I'm thinking.--Miss Madge, my dear, you're in for a bit of nursing. I'm afeard it's a fever that's on him."

Mrs. Smiley's character was changed. She had children of her own, and there were soft spots in her heart still, though the outer coat, formed by her worldly business, was hard and rough. She had known what sickness was, and she was rather a skilful nurse, so from that time whatever spare minutes she had were devoted to Raymond.

Poor little Madge! The days that followed were very sad ones. Her brother grew worse and worse, and she sat by his bedside listening to his wild ravings of delirium, in vain endeavouring to soothe him, or to allay his burning thirst.