This approach to advice aroused the woman’s ire. “Where’s she to be kept, I’d like to know that? A poor woman like me as _arns_ her bread by the sweat of her face has little time to be looking about after the young ones. People like me can’t keep their children to home like other folks, who have plenty of room indoor and out. So you see, young man, your advice aint worth much any how.” “Of course, madam, you know your own business best; but, seriously, you cannot mean to refuse my earnest request. I assure you it will be the greatest favor to me if you will suffer me to take the child’s picture. I am willing to pay you for the privilege.” “Then it shall be done,” said the woman, brightening up. “How much will you offer?” “Two dollars,” answered the young man, “and I will pay you more at some future day—but I also am poor.” Poor fellow, he spoke the truth indeed, for the two dollars were just half the contents of his old faded purse at that moment. “Well, she may go for that. Here Alice, you’re gwine to have your face painted—let me brush you up a little.” “No—no, I pray madam, leave her to me. I will take her to my studio as she is; I would not have her appearance changed in the least—the drapery of the child does not need any alteration, I will bring her to you again in an hour.” “Well, she’ll be safe enough, I ’spose, go on.” “Are you going to paint my face, sir? What for? Will it hurt me?” asked Alice Flynn as she, with Martin, passed along the streets hand in hand. “Not your _face_, child,” answered the artist, “I’m going to paint a face _like_ yours—that is all.” “What for?” “To hang up in my room, and then perhaps to sell it some day for a great deal of money.” “Sell me! sell my face!” and the little innocent laughed, and wondered why any body should want to buy a face like hers! Martin, too busy with his own thoughts, made no answer to her many exclamations of astonishment and wonder. Two steps at a time, with the girl in his arms, did the delighted youth ascend the three steep and narrow flights of stairs which led to the poor little attic room he dignified with the “name, style, and title” of studio. A barren place it seemed to little Alice Flynn, for such a nice gentleman to live in—indeed scarce a whit better than her own poor home was it. “Are you poor, too?” she asked, with childlike confidence—and a most unchildish and unnatural sadness was in her voice as she spoke. “Yes, I am poor—I paint pictures for a living, Alice. I shall not grow rich in a day,” said the artist, and his words were uttered with not quite the usual, light-hearted happy tone. Probably my reader will not soon, if ever, see the original painting executed on that day which ever after remained a date so memorable in the recollections of Martin Gray. Let me, therefore, here state that the Sunrise was a portrait quite dissimilar to those we usually see of young children.