Helen and the young artist, who roomed opposite, remained fast friends. From the evening when, by a fortunate chance, he was enabled to defend her from insult he established himself as her evening escort from the theatre. These daily walks enabled each better to understand the other. They became mutual confidants. Helen indulged in sanguine anticipations of the success of her father’s invention,—anticipations in which the young man’s practical sense could not permit him to join, yet he was so careful of Helen’s feelings, that he never, by a word, sought to undermine her perfect trust in her father’s ability to achieve success.

Herbert, too, had his dreams of fame and fortune. He was an enthusiastic lover of his art. No future seemed so bright to him as that in which he figured himself an artist, achieving fame by his works. Others might become generals, judges, statesmen; he desired nothing better than to be admitted into the confidence of Nature, and to become her interpreter.

Many were the pleasant conversations on art which he held with Helen. She looked up to him with affectionate reverence, and believed in him fully. The compact into which they had entered, to regard each other as brother and sister, had been faithfully kept. Not seldom Herbert was an invited guest at Mr. Ford’s table. Helen presided on such occasions with proud delight, and with an assumption of matronly dignity, which lent her new charms in the eyes of her father and the young artist, who felt his isolation relieved by admittance to the humble home of the inventor.

But of late Helen perceived with some concern, not unmingled with surprise, that Herbert had grown less social and communicative. A shadow seemed to rest upon his features. She tried in gentle ways to lure him on to talk of himself, but without success. Something was evidently troubling him, and she was anxious to learn what it was.

She was saved the trouble of inquiring, for the young artist finally spoke himself. It was on the evening of the same day that Margaret was taken sick.

“My little sister,” said Herbert, “you have perhaps observed a change in me within a few days.”

“Yes, Herbert; I have been afraid that you were sick or in trouble, and I wanted to ask you what it was.”

“I am sick, Helen, sick at heart; I believe disappointment is harder to bear than physical pain, especially when, as in my case, it is the disappointment of a long-cherished hope. You know how often I have talked to you about art, and how I longed to achieve name and fame as an artist.”

“Yes, Herbert, you surely have not changed your mind.”

“Never!” said the young man, fervently. “Never has art appeared to me so divinely beautiful as now, when I fear I must renounce it. Never has my longing to attain its coveted rewards been stronger. And to think I must give it all up after the brief dream of enjoyment in which I have indulged,—this is, indeed, hard.”

“But why,” said Helen, puzzled; “why, if you still love it as much as ever, do you renounce it?”

“My little sister,” said the artist, sadly, “it is money that rules the world. Before its sway we must all bow, willing or unwilling. It is the want of money that drives me to abandon that which is the chief joy of my life.”

“But, Herbert, can’t you sell your pictures?”

“In art it is a crime to be a young man. If I were only well known! But I look too much like a boy. Don’t think,” he added, hastily, “that I consider this the only impediment to my success. I have doubtless much, very much, to learn. There is great room for improvement, and if I could I should be content to work on for years without selling a picture, striving only to improve myself, not achieving, but learning to achieve. Yet I have seen paintings sold for generous sums, on account of the artist’s name, no better than mine.”

“I am sure your ‘Country Farm-house’ is a beautiful painting,” said Helen, enthusiastically. “There must be a great many that would like to buy it.”

Herbert smiled bitterly.

“I tried to sell it, yesterday, to a dealer. He received me coldly, and after inquiring what else I had painted declined to buy it on any terms. Another offered me ten dollars, a little more than the cost of the frame. I had the curiosity to inquire the price of another painting which he had for sale, which I should certainly not admit to be superior to my own, and was told that it was one hundred and fifty dollars. One hundred and fifty dollars! if I could only realize that sum for mine, it would enable me to work six months longer. But wishes are cheap. Yesterday I decided to give up all my dreams of art, and go back to my country home.”

“O Herbert, what a pity!”

“Just as I had come to this conclusion I received a letter from an uncle of mine in my native town, which confirmed my resolution. He keeps a country store, partly grocery, partly dry goods, and wants an assistant. He writes that, so far as he can learn, I don’t find painting very profitable,—but hold, I will read you the letter.”

Pausing before a shop window, Herbert took from his pocket a letter inclosed in a coarse yellow envelope, and read it as follows:—

“I am in good health, and hope you are enjoying the same blessing. Your folks are pretty smart. Your father sold his yearling calf last week, and got a pretty good price for it. I expect you are not making much money by your painting. I always thought it a foolish piece of business letting you go into such an uncertain trade, and so I told brother, but he wouldn’t listen to me, though I expect now he is beginning to think about as I do. If it had been house painting now, there’d have been some sense in that. There’s Josiah Watson is making his two dollars and a half a day straight along, and I don’t believe you’re making a quarter of that. (’He’s right there,’ interpolated Herbert.) Now I’m going to make you an offer, and if you’re wise you’ll accept it. I’m getting old, and I find my business increasing. I need help in the store, and I’d rather give the situation to one that’s kin to me than to a stranger, especially as I can trust you, and may be I might get deceived in another. I’m willing to pay thirty-five dollars a month, and more when you’ve got a little used to things, so you can move round handy. I shall want you to begin work the first of next month. That’ll give you a fortnight to settle up your painting business in the city.

“Now, nephew Herbert, I’ve made you a fair offer, and you’ll do well to accept it. Your father thinks as I do about it; and the folks, I know, will like to have you at home again. I don’t want to make no promises, but bimeby I may find myself obliged to take a partner, and of course, if you give satisfaction, as I’ve no doubt you will, I sha’n’t be very apt to go out of the family. I shall want to hear from you as soon as you have made up your mind. Your aunt Desire sends her love, and hopes you will come. She would like to have you bring her a new pair of spectacles from the city. Her old pair got broken the other day (your cousin Mary stepped on them), and she’s pestered about seeing.

“A brilliant offer, isn’t it?” said the young artist. “I am invited to give up all my high aspirations,—all my dreams of artistic eminence,—and take my place behind the counter of a country-store, to weigh out tea and sugar for Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones, and chaffer with Mrs. Thompson about the extra half cent on a yard of calico. And all for thirty-five dollars a month!”

“The offer seems kindly meant,” said Helen.

“Yes, there is no doubt of that. Uncle Zebina is a worthy and kind-hearted man. I have no doubt he thinks he is consulting my best interests in making me such a proposal. And doubtless he is, so far as his views of life are concerned. I should be pretty sure to be admitted into partnership after a while, and eventually to succeed my uncle in business. I dare say I should become a thrifty trader, be elected selectman, assessor, town clerk, and perhaps in time be elected to a seat in the legislature. That is not so bad, is it? And what has art to offer me that will outweigh all these advantages? It will gratify my Æsthetic tastes; it will give me that which my soul craves; it will open to me a world of beauty in which I can revel; but, alas! it will not give me bread. Helen, it is bread and butter that must decide this question. I believe I must send my uncle an affirmative answer. I must bid farewell to art, and sell soap and sugar. What do you advise?”

There was a bitterness in the young man’s tone that pained Helen. Accustomed to think for her father, she began to think for him. What would be best? It was not a question to be hastily decided. Bread and butter, humble and prosaic as it is, is not to be slighted. Yet she was convinced that Herbert would be very unhappy if transferred to his uncle’s store.

“I don’t know what to say, Herbert,” said Helen, at length. “I want to think it over. When do you propose to write to your uncle?”

“I can wait till day after to-morrow.”

“Then I will think it over till then. Perhaps, between us, we can think of something that will keep you in the city. I don’t know what I should do without you. Next to my father, I should miss you.”

“And one of my chief regrets in leaving the city would be that I must leave behind my little sister,” said the young artist, affectionately.

“Thank you, Herbert; goodnight!”

“Good night, Helen.”