"What did you do before?"
"Oh, I turned my hand to anything! I took up painting because it paid best at the time, and I had my mother and sister to support."
"What shall you do then?"
"I don't know." He laid down his putty knife and leaned back, wiping his mouth again.
"I know you're sick," Bertie urged anxiously, "and I'm going to call my papa."
"No, don't! I've had such turns before; but they do make me weak as a baby."
But the child was alarmed, and had already gone. When he returned the painter had risen and was slowly walking toward the house on his way to his boarding place.
"My son," said Mr. Curtis, "call Whitefoot and harness him into the carriage as quick as you can."