Watch—Work—Wait / Or, The Orphan's Victory

by Sarah A. Myers

Months passed away with little change. Mrs. Walters resumed her scolding and commanding, while Mr. Walters grumbled and found fault to his heart's content. But Jem Taylor, kinder than ever to our hero, no longer assailed him with temptation to do wrong, for he felt that "Bill's" integrity was not to be moved.

Thomas Burton had found, from a newspaper, the owner of the purse, who was a boy and the son of a distinguished artist living in the suburbs. As he described the low-storeyed house, with its wealth of natural beauty without and tasteful embellishment within, William's heart beat loudly; surely that boy was one of the happy children whom he had seen on the day he peeped into the school-room; and a feeling of disappointment stole over him that he had not been able to deliver the purse himself. This, however, soon subsided, when Thomas told him that the family were all from home, and that he had left it with an old gentleman, who was the only person he saw.

The gloomy days of winter had long passed by, and spring, with its green grass and many-hued blossoms, had cheered the country with its beauty; but now its task was ended, and the glowing summer was at hand. The weary dwellers of the pent-up city were leaving in search of pure air and variety; the dust-covered marble steps in front of many a shut-up house proclaimed it deserted for the season, and business, much to Mr. Walters' dissatisfaction, was very dull. Shoes, however, had to be worn, and as he still continued to furnish the needed article, he was often called upon, although not quite so frequently as in the winter.

One day he came in with a pair of prunella boots in his hand, which he told Bill to carry to the house of Mr. Stewart, a painter who lived in the outskirts of the city. "They are for Mrs. Stewart, to whom you took a pair of shoes last autumn," said he. "Go straight to Number 200 ——Street, and then keep on to the end of the street. The family, it seems, have gone there for fresh air, as if they could not breathe that of the city as well as others."

Never had he received a more welcome commission. He even felt as if he could have embraced his stern master for such an indulgence. The day was so fine, he had longed to get out into the sunshine, and now the prospect of a long walk to the beautiful cottage of Mr. Stewart filled him with the liveliest joy.

He was quite busy putting strings into a pair of boots for a lady, but joy lent him speed, and in a few moments his task was finished, and, stringing up the shoes and putting on his cap, he was soon on the road to —— Street.

His steps were light, and so was his heart. He wondered if he should again be able to look into the school-room and see those happy children; and so great was his haste to be at the end of his journey, that the gay pictures in the shop-windows had not power to tempt him to linger a moment. He passed Number 200, where all was closed, and keeping on to the end of the street, soon came in sight of the cottage, which looked far more lovely now, robed in the rich garniture of summer, than when he last had seen it. The branches of the climbing plants, then bare and leafless from the breath of frost, were now hiding the walls with a more beautiful tapestry than that woven by the hand of man; twining their flexile vines together, they mounted even to the roof, or, covered with many-hued flowers, hung loosely down in long reaches, giving out sweet odours as they waved in the summer breeze. It was a fitting abode for one who was a lover of the beautiful, as all painters are supposed to be.

He opened the gate, walked up the gravelled path, and ascended the high steps. He did not, however, at once ring the bell; he thought he would first take a look at the school-room. The windows were closed, as if the room were unoccupied, and a feeling of disappointment crept over his heart, which was again exchanged for a more hopeful mood, when, continuing to survey the other parts of the building, he found the door of a room on the opposite side open, and filled with objects more attractive to his eye than even those he had seen in the school-room.

It was evidently a painter's studio, for it was fitted up with everything requisite for the study of the glorious art. The walls were hung with pictures, several busts and statues were ranged round on brackets, detached models of portions of the human frame cast in plaster were on the table; but the easel, standing near the door with a picture more than half finished, interested him more than all the rest. Several tubes of colour lay on a chair, and a prepared pallet-board, with some brushes beside it, seeming to have been just now in use, gave reason to conjecture that the occupant of the room was not far off.

William, forgetting that he had not rung the bell, wondered why no one came to the door, and half attracted by the view of a painter's room, and half urged by the wish to find some one to whom he could deliver his message, he cleared the steps at a bound, and stood before the open door. He looked within; no one was there; and as he stood he could plainly see the picture, which was a Scripture subject. Was it wrong that he ventured, the shoemaker's boy with a painter's heart, step by step quite within the precincts of that chamber? So lost in pleasant observation was he, so perfectly guileless, he never once thought that, however innocent, his motive for intruding might be mistaken. He stood rapt and immovable before the picture, forgetful of everything but his present enjoyment, so that he did not hear the opening of a door behind him, nor that a footstep was approaching.