"Nonsense, Madge, I must paint; it's my life to paint."
Madge gave a long deep sigh, too long and deep for a child of her age.
"Raymond, what's my life?"
"Woman's life is to glory in man," said Raymond grandly.
"Oh!" said Madge, with an unbelieving laugh, "there's more than that in it; there's a great deal of work, too, I can assure you."
"I daresay," Raymond answered carelessly; "but, Madge, you must never talk of my giving up painting, because I should die if I did."
"Should you? O Raymond, don't."
"No, I won't until I have done something great—something to make you proud of me—something which shall make my name to be remembered;" and the boy's eyes flashed now, but it was too dark for any one to see it.
Madge liked to hear him say these kind of things, though she was not an artist herself, only a patient, loving little girl, who thought there was no one in the world like Raymond, and she put out her hand and laid it softly upon his, as if she would lay her claim to that by which his fame was to come.
They sat in silence for some time—Raymond looking into the fire, and thinking of his future; Madge looking at him, and wondering if she should ever see him as famous as she felt sure he ought to be.