"You don't know what you are talking about. Little girls should hold their tongues, and learn to be silent."
Madge shrank back immediately, and her father went on fiercely. "I'll tell you what it is, children; I'm off to-night to the Continent, and that's all the cash I can leave you," and he produced three sovereigns. "I can't find bread enough for all of us. Raymond must work. I shall be gone for a month. The place will not be ready for him before that. When I return he must go immediately."
Madge breathed more freely—there was a month's reprieve, and she stretched out her hand to Raymond. He clutched it, and held it in a vice-like grasp.
"Father," he said at last, and his voice was low and hoarse, "I want to ask you something."
"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 God; 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.