"I will be sure to call."
The artist made his way to a baker's where he bought a loaf of bread. Also at a shop near by he obtained a pint of milk, and, provided with these, he hastened home to his hungry child.
At noon, after taking lunch, Paul found his way to the address given him by the artist. The room was dark and scantily furnished. Mr. Henderson sat before an easel, trying to work. He got up hastily as Paul entered.
"I am glad to see you, my good young friend," he said. "Take a seat."
"Is this your little daughter?" asked Paul.
"Come here, Mary, and speak to the gentleman," said her father.
Mary Henderson was a delicate looking little girl of eight years, with dark hair and eyes. She would have been pretty if she had been stronger and more healthy. A few weeks of good food and country air would bring back the roses to her cheeks, and fill out her emaciated form.
"Have you any pictures finished?" asked Paul.
"I have two small ones. Would you like to see them?"
"Very much."