"Now don't you take on about that, miss, don't!" she cried. "I shall not ask you for any more money till I am obliged, miss. I know you will pay me when you can."
"You may be quite sure I shall do that," said Doris. "I am only too distressed at the idea of your having to wait for the money."
Mrs. Austin went out of the room, to return, however, in a few minutes with what she thought might be a "helpful suggestion."
"If you can paint, miss," she said, "perhaps they may be willing to sell your pictures at some of the picture shops."
Doris's face brightened. Her little water-colour and oil paintings had been very much admired at home. But she sighed the next moment, as she said gently, "I have no paints here, or brushes, or canvas, or anything!"
"I have thought of that," said Mrs. Austin cheerfully. "Just you come upstairs with me."
She led the way up the narrow stairs to the back bedroom where she slept, and pointed to a chest of drawers with no little pride. "My Sam made that," she said, "when he was a joiner and cabinet maker, before he took to cab driving, which I wish sometimes he had not done. For it's a life of temptation. The fares so often give drinks to cabmen--'specially on cold nights. Sam says it's almost impossible sometimes to keep from taking too much; and his wife has cried more than once because he has come home 'with three sheets in the wind,' as they call it. And he's reckoned a sober man, for he's that naturally, only he lives in the way of temptation. But now, look here, miss!"
Opening a drawer Mrs. Austin displayed all sorts of painting materials heaped up within it. Water-colour paints, drawing blocks, palettes, oil-tubes, canvases, pencils, and chalks were all mixed up together.
"These belonged to my dear son Silas," said Mrs. Austin, wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron. "He was never strong like Sam, he was always a delicate lad. He couldn't do hard work, with his poor thin hands and weakly legs. But he was a rare lad for a bit of colour. 'Mother, I'll be an artist,' he oft said to me. And I had him taught. He used to attend classes, and go to a School of Art--I was at a deal of expense--and now, now he's gone!" She broke down, sobbing bitterly, while Doris put her arms round her neck and kissed her poor red face, which was all she could do to comfort her. "He's gone," continued the widow pathetically, "to be an artist up above, if so be it's true that God permits people to carry on their work on high."
"On the earth the broken arcs, in the
Heaven a perfect round,"