Mary Henderson was a delicate looking little girl of eight years, with dark hair and eyes. She would have been pretty if she had been stronger and more healthy. A few weeks of good food and country air would bring back the roses to her cheeks, and fill out her emaciated form. "Have you any pictures finished?" asked Paul. "I have two small ones. Would you like to see them?" "Very much." The artist went to a closet, and produced two small pictures unframed. One was an English country landscape, pretty in design, and executed, as Paul thought, with taste. "I like that," he said. "The other is better," said Mr. Henderson. He exhibited the other canvas. It was a simple sketch of a brother and sister on their way to school. The faces were bright and pretty, the attitudes natural and graceful, and all the details were well carried out. "You are right," said Paul. "This is the best picture. The girl's face looks familiar. It is your own little girl, is it not?" "Then you see the resemblance?" "Yes, it is very like, but----" "But it represents a blooming, healthful child, while my poor Mary is thin and pale. Yet when the picture was painted, before I left England, it was an exact likeness. You see what privation and the bad air of the city have done for her." "She will look like it again. A few weeks will bring her back." "I hope so." "You ought to get a good price for these pictures, Mr. Henderson." "If I had a name, I could." "If you are willing to trust me with them, I will see what I can do for you." "Thank you a thousand times." "I may not be able to sell them, but I will try. Have you set a price on them?" "No; I will sell them for anything they will fetch--for five dollars even, if no more can be obtained." "I hope to get more." "Mary, wrap up the pictures for the gentleman," said her father. The little girl did so. "If you can call on me this evening at half-past seven, Mr. Henderson," said Paul, "I will make arrangements about your giving lessons to my little brother." "I will certainly do so." "You will not be afraid to leave your little girl alone?" "She can stay with a neighbor." "Then I will expect you." Paul wrote down his address, and took his leave, with the pictures under his arm. He had thought of a customer. He knew that Mr. Preston was not only rich, but kindhearted and charitable. Even if he did not want the pictures, he thought he would be willing to give a small sum for them; and even a little would be of great service to the poverty-stricken artist. He therefore made his way to Mr. Preston's counting-room, and was admitted to his presence. "Are you busy, Mr. Preston?" asked our hero. "Not particularly. I can spare you a few minutes." He looked inquiringly at the parcel Paul carried under his arm. "I have come to sell you some pictures, Mr. Preston." "You haven't turned artist?" said the merchant, surprised. "No; but I am acting as agent for a poor artist, who is in great need of money."