Miss Ricker gave a faint, a.s.senting smile.

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

"Practice makes perfect," some one observed; and then, time being called, 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 st.i.tching 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 pa.s.ses my comprehension."

"But sometimes I daub the canvas," Madge protested, with unwonted meekness, as she drew a grey woollen sock over 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.

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 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."

"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.

"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 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!_"