“I really think, Miss Burtwell, you might be a little more careful,” Miss Isabella Ricker wailed, in a tone of hopeless remonstrance. It was the third time that morning that Madge had knocked against her easel, and human nature could bear no more.

“I think so too,” said Madge, in a voice as dejected as her victim’s own. “If I only knew how to prowl more intelligently, I would, I truly would.”

“Tie yourself to your own easel,” suggested Delia Smith; “then that will have to go first.”

“You’re a good one to talk!” cried Mary Downing. “You’ve upset my things twice this very morning!”

“Put those two behind each other,” 108 Josephine Wilkes suggested. “It will be a lesson to them.”

“And who’s going to sit behind the rear one?” somebody asked.

“Harriet Wells,” Delia Smith proposed. “Mr. Salome said ‘very good’ to her this morning; she must be proof against adversity.”

“No one is proof against adversity,” Madge declared, in a tragic tone; but her remark passed unheeded. The girls were already at work again, and nothing short of another wreck was likely to distract their attention. The scrape of a palette-knife, the tread of a prowler, or the shoving of a chair to one side, were the only sounds audible in the room, excepting when the occasional roar of an electric car or the rattle of a passing waggon came in at the open window. It was the first warm day in April.

Artful Madge’s sententious observation with regard to adversity was the fruit of bitter experience. Misfortune’s arrows had been raining thick and fast about her, and although she was holding her ground 109 against them very well, she felt that adversity was a subject on which she was fitted to speak with authority.

In the first place, her Student series was proving to be quite as much of a Noah’s Dove as the first set of sketches which had so signally failed to find a permanent roosting-place in an inhospitable world. Only yesterday the familiar parcel had made its appearance on the front-entry table, that table which, for a year past, she had never come in sight of without a quicker beating of the heart. If she ever did have a bit of success, she often reflected, that piece of ancestral mahogany was likely to be the first to know of it. How often she had dreamed of the small business envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar hand, which might one day appear there! It would be half a second before she should take in the meaning of it. Then would come a premonitory thrill, instantly justified by a glance at the upper left-hand corner of the envelope, where the name of some great periodical would seem literally blazoned forth, however 110 small the type in which it was printed. And then,—oh, then! the tearing open of the envelope, the unfolding of the sheet with trembling fingers, the check! Would it be for $10 or $15 or even $25, and might there be a word of editorial praise or admonition? Foolish, foolish dreams! And there was that hideous parcel, which she was getting to hate the very sight of! As she squeezed a long rope of burnt-sienna upon her palette, she made up her mind that she would wait a week before exposing herself to another disappointment. Perhaps the Student would improve with keeping, like violins and old masters. Certainly if he was anything like his prototype he needed maturing.

Meanwhile the model’s mouth was proving as troublesome to paint as Eleanor’s had been, and as Madge grew more and more perplexed with the problem of it she thought of the miniature with a fresh pang. For she had lost it! Three days ago it had somehow slipped from her possession. Had she left it lying on the table in the Public Library? Nobody 111 there had seen anything of it. But on the very day of her loss she had been at the Library, examining the current numbers of all the illustrated papers, in the hope of gleaning some hint as to editorial tastes. She remembered reading Eleanor’s last letter there, the letter in which her friend had written that she was to have two years more of Paris. She had read the letter through twice, and then she had taken out the miniature and had a good look at it. To think of Eleanor, having two more years of Paris! And it had all come about so simply! She had merely persuaded her cousin, Mr. Hicks, to advance a few hundred dollars till she should be of age and at liberty to sell a bond.

“There isn’t anybody that believes in me,” Madge had told herself; and then she had thought of something that Mr. Salome had said to her a few days ago, something that she would have considered it very unbecoming to repeat, even to Eleanor, but the memory of which, thus suddenly recalled, had filled her with such 112 hopefulness that she had sped homeward to the mahogany table almost with a conviction of success. Was it in that sudden rush of hopefulness, so mistaken, alas, so groundless, that she had left the little morocco case lying about? Or had she pulled it out of her pocket with her handkerchief? Or had she really had her pocket picked?

What wonder that in the stress of anxious speculation she was making bad work of her painting! This would never do! She took a long stride backwards, and over went Miss Ricker’s long-suffering easel, prone upon the floor, carrying with it a neighbouring structure of similar unsteadiness, which was, however, happily empty, save for a couple of jam-pots filled with turpentine and oil! These plunged with headlong impetuosity into space, forming little rivers of stickiness, as they rolled half-way across the room. Everybody rushed to the rescue, while Miss Ricker gazed upon the catastrophe with stony displeasure.

By a miracle, the canvas, though “butter-side-down,” 113 had escaped unscathed. Not until she was assured of this did the culprit speak.

“I’m a disgrace to the class,” she said, “and expulsion is the only remedy. Tell Mr. Salome that I have forfeited every right to membership, and it’s quite possible that I may never exaggerate another detail as long as I live.”

“Time’s up in two minutes,” Mary Downing remarked, in her matter-of-fact voice, as she dabbed some yellow-ochre upon her subject’s chin. “I rather think you’ll come back to-morrow.”

“But I do think it’s somebody’s else turn to work behind her,” said Josephine Wilkes.

Miss Ricker gave a faint, assenting smile.

“I think Miss Ricker is very much indebted to Artful Madge,” Harriet Wells declared. “There isn’t another girl in the class who could have knocked that easel over without damaging the picture.”

“Practice makes perfect,” some one observed; and then, time being called, 114 everybody began talking at once, and wit and wisdom were alike lost upon the company.

But Artful Madge was not to be lightly consoled.

“Mother,” she said, that same afternoon, as she came into the little sitting-room over the front entry, where her mother was stitching on the sewing-machine, “I think I should like to do something useful. I’m kind of tired of art.”

Madge had been helping wash the luncheon dishes, and was beginning to wonder whether her talents were not, perhaps, of a purely domestic order.

“I should think you would be tired of it!” said Mrs. Burtwell, in perfect good faith, as she snipped the thread at the end of a seam. “How you can make up your mind to spend all your days bedaubing your clothes with those nasty paints passes my comprehension.”

“But sometimes I daub the canvas,” Madge protested, with unwonted meekness, as she drew a grey woollen sock over 115 her hand, and pounced upon a small hole in the toe; and at that very instant, which Madge was whimsically regarding as a possible turning-point in her career, the doorbell rang.

“A gintleman to see you, Miss,” said Nora, a moment later, handing Madge a card.

“To see me?” asked Madge, incredulously, as she read the name, “Mr. Philip Spriggs! Are you sure he didn’t ask for Father?”

But Nora was quite clear that she had not made a mistake.

“Who is it, Madge?” Mrs. Burtwell queried.

“It’s probably a book agent,” said Madge, as she went down-stairs to the parlour, rather begrudging the interruption to her darning bout.

Standing by the window, hat in hand, was an elderly man of a somewhat severe cast of countenance, as unsuggestive as possible, in his general appearance, of the comparatively frivolous name which a satirical fate had bestowed upon him. 116

As Madge entered the room he observed, without advancing a step toward her: “You are Miss Burtwell, I suppose. I came to answer your letter in person.”

“My letter?” asked Madge, with a confused impression that something remarkable was going forward.

“Yes; this one,”—and he drew from his pocket the red morocco miniature case.

“Oh!” cried Madge, “how glad I am to have it!—and how kind you are to bring it!—and, oh! that dreadful letter!”

The three aspects of the case had chased each other in rapid succession through her mind, and each had got its-self expressed in turn.

Mr. Spriggs did not relax a muscle of his face.

“I found this on a table in the Public Library,” he stated. “Your directions were so explicit that I could do no less than be guided by them.”

There was something so solemn, almost judicial, about her guest that Madge became quite awestruck.

“Won’t you please take a seat?” she 117 begged, humbly. “I think I could apologise better if you were to sit down.”

“Then you consider that there is occasion to apologise?” he asked, taking the proffered chair, and resting his hat upon the floor.

“Indeed, yes!” said Madge. “It’s perfectly dreadful to think of the letter having fallen into the hands of any one so—” and she broke short off.

“So what?” asked Mr. Spriggs.

“Why, so dignified and so—very different from—” but again she found herself unable to finish her sentence.

“From a ‘dear pickpocket?’” he suggested.

“Did I say ‘dear pickpocket’?” cried Madge in consternation. “I didn’t know I said ‘dear.’”

“I suppose you desired to make a favourable impression, in order to get your picture back. There are some very good points about the picture,” he remarked, as he took it out of the case and examined it. “There’s a good deal of drawing in it, and considerable colour.” 118

“Do you know about pictures?” asked Madge with eager interest.

“Not much. I’ve heard more or less art-jargon in my day; that’s all.”

Madge looked at him suspiciously.

“I am sure you will agree with me that I don’t know much,” he continued, “when I tell you that I prefer your pen-and-ink work to the miniature. ‘The Consequences of Crime’ is full of humour; and I have been given to understand that you can’t produce an effect without skill,—what you would probably dignify with the name of technique. The second small boy on the right is not at all bad.”

“You do know about art!” cried Madge. “I rather think you must be an artist.”

Mr. Spriggs did not exactly change countenance; he only looked as if he were either trying to smile or trying not to. Madge wished she could make out just what were the lines and shadows in his face that produced this singular expression.

“Have you never thought of doing anything for the papers?” he asked. 119

“Thought of it! I’ve spent four dollars and sixty-one cents in postage within the last ten months, and he always comes back to the ark!”

“‘He’? Comes back where?”

“To the ark. I call the package ‘Noah’s Dove’ because it never finds a place to roost.”

“The original dove did, after a while.” Mr. Spriggs spoke as if he were taking the serious, historical view of the incident. “I imagine yours will, one of these days. Have you got anything you could show me?”

“Would you really care to see?”

“I can’t tell till you show me,” he said cautiously; but this time there was something so very like a smile among the stern features that Madge could see just what the line was that produced it.

She flew to her room, and seized Noah’s Dove, and in five minutes that much-travelled bird had spread his wings,—all six of them,—for the delectation of this mysterious critic.

Madge watched him, as he leaned back 120 in his chair and examined the sketches. He seemed inclined to take his time over them, and she felt sure that her Student had never before been so seriously considered.

At last Mr. Spriggs laid the drawings upon the table and fixed his thoughtful gaze upon the artist. His contemplation of her countenance was prolonged a good many seconds, yet Madge did not feel in the least self-conscious; it never once occurred to her that this severe old gentleman was thinking of anything but her Student. She found herself taking a very low view of her work, and quite ready to believe that perhaps, after all, those unappreciative editors knew what they were about.

“Have you ever sent these to the Gay Head?” her visitor inquired casually.

“Oh, no! I should not dare send anything to the Gay Head!”

“Why not?”

“Why! Because it’s the best paper in the country. It would never look at my things.” 121

“It certainly won’t if you never give it a chance. You had better try it,” he went on, in a tone that carried a good deal of weight. “You know they can do no worse than return it; and I should think, myself, that the Gay Head was quite as well worth expending postage-stamps on as any other paper. Mind; I don’t say they’ll take your things,—but it’s worth trying for. By the way,” he added as he rose to go; “I wouldn’t send No. 5 if I were you; it’s a chestnut.”

He had picked up his hat and stood on his feet so unexpectedly that Madge was afraid he would escape her without a word of thanks.

“Oh, please wait just a minute,” she begged. “I haven’t told you a single word of how grateful I am. I feel somehow as if,—as if,—the worst were over!” This time Mr. Spriggs smiled broadly.

“And you will send Noah’s Dove to the Gay Head?”

“Yes, I will, because you advise me to. But you mustn’t think I’m conceited enough to expect him to roost there.” 122

And that very evening the dove spread his wings,—only five of them now,—and set forth on the most ambitious flight he had yet ventured upon.

In the next few days Madge found her thoughts much occupied with speculations regarding her mysterious visitor; everything about him, his name, his errand, both the matter and the manner of his speech, roused and piqued her curiosity. It was clear that he knew a great deal about art. And yet, if he were an artist, she would certainly be familiar with his name. Whatever his calling, he was sure to be distinguished. Those judicial eyes would be severe with any work more pretentious than that of a mere student; that firm, discriminating hand,—she had been struck with the way he handled her sketches,—would never have signed a poor performance. Perhaps it was Elihu Vedder in disguise,—or Sargent, or Abbey! Since the descent of the fairy-godmother upon the class a year ago, no miracle seemed impossible. And yet, the miracle which actually befell would have seemed, 123 of all imaginable ones, the most incredible. It took place, too, in the simplest, most unpremeditated manner, as miracles have a way of doing.

One evening, about a week after the return of the miniature, the family were gathered together as usual about the argand burner. It was a warm evening, and Ned, who was to devote his energies to the cause of electrical science, when once he was delivered from the thraldom of the classics, had made some disparaging remarks about the heat engendered by gas.

“By the way,” said Mr. Burtwell, “that, reminds me! I have a letter for you, Madge. I met the postman just after I left the door this noon, and he handed me this with my gas bill. Who’s your New York correspondent?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Madge, with entire sincerity, for it was far too early to look for any word from the Gay Head.

The letter had the appearance of a friendly note, being enclosed in a square 124 envelope, undecorated with any business address. Madge opened it, and glanced at the signature, which was at the bottom of the first page. The blood rushed to her face as her eye fell upon the name: “Philip Spriggs, Art Editor of the Gay Head.”

She read the letter very slowly, with a curious feeling that this was a dream, and she must be careful not to wake herself up. This was what she read:

“My dear Miss Burtwell,

“We like Noah’s Dove as much as I thought we should. We shall hope to get him out some time next year. Can’t you work up the pickpocket idea? That small boy, the second one from the right, is nucleus enough for another set. In fact, it is the small-boy element in your Student that makes him original—and true to life. We think that you have the knack, and count upon you for better work yet. We take pleasure in handing you herewith a check for this.

“Yours truly,
“Philip Spriggs.”
125

The check was a very plain one on thin yellow paper, not in the least what she had looked for from a great publishing-house; but the amount inscribed in the upper left-hand corner of the modest slip of paper seemed to her worthy the proudest traditions of the Gay Head itself. The check was for sixty dollars.

As Madge gradually assured herself that she was awake, the first sensation that took shape in her mind was the very ridiculous one of regret that the mahogany table should have been deprived of its legitimate share in this great event. And then she remembered that it was her father himself who had handed her the letter.

She was still wondering how she should break the news to him, when she found herself giving an odd little laugh, and asking, “Father, what is your favourite line of ocean steamers?”

Mr. Burtwell, who had really felt no special curiosity as to his daughter’s correspondent, was once more immersed in his evening paper. He looked up, at her 126 words, as all the family did, and was struck by the expression of her face.

“What makes you ask that?” he demanded sharply.

“Because I know you always keep your promises, and—there’s a letter you might like to read.”

Mr. Burtwell took the letter, frowning darkly, a habit of his when he was puzzled or anxious. He read the letter through twice, and then he examined the check. He did not speak at once. There was something so portentous in this deliberation, and something so very like emotion in his kind, sensible face, that even Ned was awed into respectful silence.

At last Mr. Burtwell turned his eyes to his daughter’s face, where everything, even suspense itself, seemed arrested, and said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

“I think you had better go by the North German Lloyd. Shall you start this week?”

“Oh, you darling!” cried Madge, throwing her arms about her father’s neck, regardless 127 of letter and check, which, being still in his hands, were called upon to bear the brunt of this attack; “How can I ever make up my mind to leave you?”