from? James was in an agony, and I was
powerless to help him. If sorrow and pain
could have bought these men their happiness
they would have had it without much
delay; but what could a weak and ignorant
girl do for them? Absolutely nothing!
I saw James look round the shabby room,
and I saw where his eyes rested. By rare
good fortune he had been commissioned
to paint a portrait for one of those so-called
patrons of art whose patronage consists in
getting the best productions of clever young
men, yet unknown, at merely nominal
prices. It was for a rich City merchant to
whom James had been introduced, and it
was to be thirty pounds when done. Could
he mortgage it? There was no use in asking
Mr. Hawes to give him an advance.
He thought he had done great things in
giving the order at all; and there was every
probability that if he paid him on delivery
he would charge him a per-centage on the
transaction, and make a profit out of his
"cash down." No there was no use in
going to him! He had lent my brother
a magnificent silver- gilt hanaper which he
wanted introduced into his picture. It had
been a presentation-piece from some society
or other, and the City merchant was very
proud of his cup. It was a hideous thing,
artistically speaking, but it was worth some
hundreds of pounds.

My brother looked at this tankard. I
do not know what made me do it, but I took
it up quietly, and dusted it with my apron.

"I hope this has not got scratched or
hurt in any way," I said; and it was rare
that I spoke before Ashley. "You remember
Mr. Hawes is coming for it tomorrow,
Jamie?"

"What a shame that a fellow like that
should have such a thing—and so vilely
ugly too!" said Ashley. " It is worth only
the weight of metal; but that is being
worth something," he added, as if reflecting.

"Yes, it is hideously ugly—criminally
ugly!" said James; " but it cost no end of
money, I dare say. Old Hawes, I know, sets
great store by it, the old rhinoceros! But as
it is, it is too good for him. And to think that
we should be at the orders of such a man!
—that we should be obliged to put such a
vile thing as that into our work!"

He spoke in the artist's injured tone. I
have often noticed that artists are injured
when they are employed by men who do
not understand art—Philistines as they call
them.

"Better send it to the smelting-pot!"
laughed Ashley.

I say laughed, but it was a bitter sneer
rather than a laugh.

James flushed, and I trembled. It never
occurred to me as possible that my brother
could do anything so dishonourable as deal
with another man's property—my dear
Jamie, the very soul of chivalrous feeling!
and yet I somehow feared Ashley's suggestion.
I knew how he loved that man, and
I knew that he, quite as much as Ashley,
wanted to see Cora and Mrs. Graham in
London. But wishing and doing, envying
and stealing, are two different things; and
though I trembled I did not definitely distrust.

That night Ashley slept with us. I was
going to say as usual; for, indeed, it was a
very frequent thing now; and I passed the
night sitting on a wooden chair before the
empty kitchen hearth.

I had fallen into an uneasy doze just at
the last hours, as the day began to break,
when I was awakened by hearing a step
on the stairs. The house was one of those
creaking old places where a mouse could
hardly stir without being heard; and there
was something in the build of it that made
my little kitchen like an echoing vault.
The step came down the stairs and across
the hall; I heard the door- chain rattle, and
the bolt shoot back; and then the door
opened and slammed to again; and a
hurried footfall passed on the pavement.
How like Ashley's step! An unaccountable
terror came over me; what was he doing
out so early?—but then I thought it might
be Mr. Thomson, the lodger, who lived next
door to me up-stairs, and who used sometimes
to go out very early—before any one
else was astir. He was a commission agent,
as he called himself; an irreverent servant
used to speak of him as " our commercial
gent;" and, my brother, who had an artist's
contempt for commerce in all its branches,
always called him the bagman. He was a
bold, coarse, good-looking man, with, large
roving eyes and long fingers; a man for
whom I had an especial horror, partly because
he would waylay me on the top landing
when I went to bed, asking me all manner
of things about my brother and his work,
and who were his patrons, and what he got
for such and such a picture, &c. He wished
to pass himself off as knowing something
about painting, and he knew as much of it
as I did of algebra! Still, we had no right
to dislike him as we did, and so I often
said to James when we were alone.

Determined then that it should be Mr.
Thomson who had gone out early, I tried to