NO HOPE.
"Then you can do nothing for us?" asked Madge sadly.
"Nothing. Stay, though;" and he began turning over the leaves of his memorandum-book. "Yes, you are the child. Well, Mr. Smith—Mr. Herbert Smith—the great artist, wants to see you. Here, take this 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.