"Here's all the illustrated papers!"

Of course the speaker was Paul, and again we go back, this time four weeks.

It was the same afternoon train from Milwaukee, and there were but twenty miles to travel before reaching Chicago.

The conductor chanced to be making his rounds at the same time. He was calling for the tickets in order to punch them. Among the rest he came to a young man, slender and graceful, and with one of those faces that seem to win upon a stranger at first sight—a thoroughly good face, with an expression of refinement and intellectual power. He appeared, however, to be in limited circumstances, for his coat was well worn, and in places there was a suspicious shiningness indicating a respectable antiquity.

"Ticket!" said the conductor, addressing himself to the young man.

The young man felt in his coat-pocket for his ticket, but it was gone—at least, he could not find it.An expression of alarm overspread his face.

"I can't find my ticket," he murmured, in perplexity.

The conductor listened coldly, and, it must be added, with incredulity. He had met such cases before.

"Then you can pay me the value of the ticket," he said.

The young man's face flushed. Small as the sum was, he did not have it.

"Will you be kind enough to give me time, and I may find the ticket?" he said.

"I will wait till we reach the next station," said the official, coldly. "Then you must either show me the ticket or pay your fare."

"If I can do neither?"

"Of course I must ask you to leave the train," and the conductor passed on.

Paul stood where he could hear this colloquy, and he noticed the distress of the young man. His sympathies were aroused, for he suspected that the passenger had not enough money to replace the missing ticket.

He, too, knew what it was to be poor, and he pitied him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, approaching the young man, after the conductor had passed on, "but have you lost your ticket?"

"Yes, I fear that I have."

"Where did you get on?"

"At Deerfield."

"That is not so bad as if it were a through ticket from Milwaukee."

"No, but I am unable to replace it. I—I am not provided with the necessary money."

"The ticket is less than a dollar."

"Yes, but even that small sum I have not at hand."

"I hope you won't be offended if I offer to lend you the money," said Paul.

"Offended! I thank you heartily, for it is very necessary that I reach Chicago this evening. My mother is sick, and would be anxious."

Paul drew from his pocket a dollar bill, and placed it in the young man's hand.

"You are very kind to a stranger. Give me your address, that I may Send it to you."

Paul did so, adding:

"Don't put yourself to any trouble. There is no hurry. Wait till it is convenient."

"Thank you again," said the young man, recovering his cheerfulness. "I hope some time to return the favor. I am an artist, and I will paint your portrait for half price, whenever you get ready to give me a sitting."

"Thank you," answered Paul, laughing. "I must wait for that till I am a little richer."

Frederic Vernon, for this was his name, had settled in Chicago six months previously, with his invalid mother, hoping to make a fair living as an artist, for he was a clever portrait painter, but he met the usual fortune of young men of merit who establish themselves in a large city without influential friends. Orders came in slowly, and he was obliged to accept paltry prices, far below the value of his work. Yet he would not have complained if he could have obtained enough work, and been promptly paid for such as he did.

On the day subsequent to his adventure in the cars, chance, or let us say Providence, brought him a liberal patroness.

Grace Dearborn, returning from a shopping excursion, had taken a seat in one of the city horse-cars when her attention was attracted by the conversation of two young ladies who were sitting near her.

"That's a fine portrait of yours, Sarah," said one.

"Isn't it?" said the other, complacently. "Pa says it is as well painted as if we had employed a tip-top artist."

"Didn't you?"

"No; it was painted by a young man, as poor as poverty, who is obliged to work for any sum people are willing to pay. Fancy, I only paid twenty dollars."

"Only twenty dollars?"

"Yes; he wanted more, of course, and it took him three or four weeks to paint it, but that was all I would pay. Pa gave me fifty dollars to pay for a portrait, so I made thirty dollars out of it," said the selfish girl, complacently.

"I should think he would starve—the artist, I mean."

"He did look dreadfully seedy, but that was nothing to me, you know."

"I'm a great mind to get him to paint my portrait."

"You'd better. Let him know that you are a friend of mine, and the price I paid, and he will paint yours for the same."

"I will. What is his address?"

"No.—State street."

The other took down the address, and so did Grace. Gifted with a warm, sympathetic nature, she could hardly repress the disgust she felt at the miserable selfishness of the two handsomely dressed girls, who counted it a smart thing to obtain the services of an accomplished artist at a price which would have poorly compensated a hod carrier."I may as well have my portrait painted," she said to herself. "It will give me an excuse for helping this young man, who has been so cruelly underpaid by one who could evidently afford to pay him fairly."

The next morning Frederic Vernon was sitting in his plain studio in a fit of despondency. He had just had a visit from Miss Framley, who had given him an order for a portrait, after beating him down to twenty dollars.

In vain he had told her that he could not afford to work so cheap. She protested that she would not pay a cent more than her friend.

Vernon was on the point of declining the commission, but he reflected with a sigh that work even at that price was better than to be idle, and he sadly consented.

Miss Framley, well pleased with the success of her negotiation, swept out of the studio, in her seal-skin sacque and costly silk, feeling that she would be applauded by her father—a wholesale pork merchant—for her financial success.

On the stairs, as she was descending, she met Miss Dearborn, whom she recognized by sight, and would have been glad to know.

"Is Miss Dearborn going to patronize the artist?" she thought. "If he gets many patrons like her, he will be getting fashionable, and put up his prices. I am glad I have made my bargain."

Miss Dearborn entered the studio, and a hasty glance satisfied her that the artist was indeed poor. She glanced at the artist, and felt an immediate interest in him. Though shabbily dressed, she read refinement and nobility of character in his expressive face, and was extremely glad she had come.

"Mr. Vernon, I believe," she said, gently.

The artist bowed.

"I am told you paint portraits."

Another bow.

"I will give you a commission, if you have the time to execute it."

"I have something too much of that," said Vernon, smiling faintly. "I will gladly accept your commission."

"If you have other work requiring your present attention, I am not in haste."

"I have just agreed to paint the portrait of a Miss Framley——"

"Whom I met on the stairs?"

"Probably; she just went out."

"Then I will wait till you have executed her commission. Meanwhile allow me to pay you one-half in advance."Frederic Vernon stared in amazement, as she put in his hands two fifty-dollar bills.

"A hundred dollars!" he ejaculated.

"Yes."

"Do you know that I have agreed to paint Miss Framley's portrait for twenty dollars?"

"I am sorry to hear it. I propose to pay a good price for good work. There is my card. Be kind enough to apprise me when you are ready for me."

"Miss Dearborn," said the artist, his face lighting up with gratitude, "you have done a great favor to a struggling man. Miss Framley beat me down, while you offer to pay a price such as only an artist of established reputation would dare to charge."

"I'm only anticipating matters a little," said Grace, smiling, as she left the studio.

"God bless her!" ejaculated the artist, fervently. "I was almost discouraged, but now hope lights my pathway. I will move mother out of that dingy room into a lighter and more cheerful apartment."