The eyes of the sketcher glowed with an indescribable light--the light which the intangible, potent, holy thing we call appreciation calls from the depths of human souls. To portray nature so that the most heedless and untaught see the soul of the subject and are able for the moment to roam about in that awesome country,--with the artist, and feel his heart-throbs--is ever the dream of art. By the effect of her work on the Butterfly, Cartice realized that in this modest drawing she had accomplished this. “There, he is moving on and the boys he has been talking to are going with him,” said Chrissalyn, leaning out of the window. “He preaches every Sunday morning at the South Market, and is probably on his way there now. He is a queer fellow, though he belongs to a rich and respectable family who are greatly mortified at his peculiar doings. But he hasn’t lived with them for ten years, nor taken a cent from them. He has a little cobbler’s shop away down town in the very ugliest part of the city, and supports himself making and mending shoes, and does excellent work, they say. On Sundays, and other odd times he preaches to people who are too poor to go to church, and does lots of other things for them besides. You see he is cheaply dressed, though as clean as a pin. He could have better clothes, but doesn’t want them--has views about such things--says he does not want to be separated from the people he tries to help by being better dressed than they are. Of course he is an out-and-out crank, but wasn’t always so. A dozen years ago nobody was fonder of the good things of the world. He was the leader of the very swellest social doings. All at once he took a turn in the opposite direction--said he had been wasting his life, and was going to put what remained of it to some use. Some say an unlucky love affair set him off; others that he had a dream or vision that changed him. At this very moment I dare say his father and family are rolling to church--the swellest church here--in their fine carriage. But Gabriel preaches against the rich--or at least against the selfish use they make of their money, and prophesies no end of difficulty for them here and hereafter if they keep on as they are going. I have always laughed at him, but I never shall again, because your picture of him gives me a queer thrill and lets me see into him as I never did before. But how did you get the features, the expression,--everything so perfect, seeing him only from the window?” “I saw him a few days ago, with his head bare, just as I have him here, preaching to a little group on a street corner,” said Cartice. “I stopped a moment to listen, and his face has been often in my mind since. So when I saw him from the window, this morning, talking to the boys, I hurried to make a sketch of him.” Then looking up, with an eager light in her mottled eyes, she said, “Chrissalyn, let us go and hear him. You say he speaks to the poor. We are of them. Who needs help more? Let us go.”