Chatterbox | Page 7

easel, looking sadly at his latest attempt at a picture, and thinking how poor it was compared with the scene his imagination painted. He was so shy and so much overcome by the honour of their visit that he could hardly find words to welcome them, but the girls' exclamations of delight when they saw his picture soon set him at ease.
'How lovely!' Dora cried. 'Did you really paint it yourself?'
'I have watched you sketching on the beach, but I never thought you were so clever,' Elsie told him, and Willie blushed with pleasure at their praise.
Then he opened the box on which his painting materials stood, and showed them all the pictures and sketches he had done in the past year.
'You see, Miss,' he said to Dora, 'now I cannot get about much, it passes the time; but I do wish I had somebody to tell me all the faults in them, and help me to do better.'
'We must bring Father to see them; he will not be backward about pointing out faults,' said Elsie, laughing, 'though I cannot find any myself.'
'But Mr. Vaughan is such a great artist, he would never look at my poor little pictures,' Willie said, flushing at the very thought.
'He may be a great artist, but he is a very kind father,' Elsie told him, 'and he nearly always does what we ask him.'
Certainly he did not disappoint his daughters this time. Moreover, he was amazed at the progress the boy had made with so little help, and saw that he was worth training.
'Your son has great natural talent,' he said to Willie's mother. 'I am even inclined to think he may be a genius. You must allow me to make it easy for him to be trained in the best schools.'
And so poor crippled Willie, instead of being a burden to his mother, became her pride and joy, beginning a career which was one day to make him even more famous than the artist who had given him a helping hand.
M. H.

THE BOY TRAMP.
CHAPTER I.
The first time I saw Captain Knowlton, we were living in lodgings at Acacia Road, Saint John's Wood. My Aunt Marion had breakfasted in bed, and I, having nothing better to do, wandered downstairs to what our landlady called the 'hall,' where I stood watching Jane as she dipped a piece of flannel into her pail, and smacked it down noisily on to the oilcloth, until there was a loud ringing of the street-door bell.
As Jane rose from her knees, rubbing her red hands on her apron, I edged along the passage, keeping touch of the wall, and staring unabashed at the tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking visitor.
'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired.
'Yes, sir,' answered Jane.
'I should like to see her.'
'Master Jack!' cried Jane, 'do you know if your aunt has come down yet?'
But as I was on the point of running upstairs to find out, the visitor called me back.
'Half a second,' he said. 'Are you young Everard?'
'Yes,' I replied; and fixing an eyeglass in his left eye, he looked at me with considerable curiosity.
'Tell your aunt,' he continued, 'that Captain Knowlton wishes to see her.'
And upon that I ran off, shouting, 'Aunt Marion! Aunt Marion!' at the top of my voice. 'Aunt Marion,' I repeated, entering the sitting-room, 'Captain Knowlton is downstairs, and he wants to speak to you.'
'Captain Knowlton!' she murmured.
'Shall I bring him up?' I asked.
Rising from the sofa, and laying down the newspaper which she had been reading, Aunt Marion walked towards the door. She must have been near her thirty-fifth year at that time, about the same age as our visitor. She was tall, fair, and nice-looking, good-tempered, and perhaps a little careless. That morning she was wearing a light blue dressing-gown, although it was past eleven o'clock.
'Yes, bring Captain Knowlton up,' she answered, 'and ask him to wait a few minutes.'
As she went to the bedroom, I returned to the street door, where Captain Knowlton stood gazing at Jane as she continued to smack the oilcloth with her wet flannel.
'You are to come upstairs,' I cried, and following me to the sitting-room, he sat down and began to stare afresh.
'So you are poor Frank Everard's boy!' he said.
'Did you know my father?' I demanded, for I had no recollection of either parent, or of any relative with the exception of Aunt Marion, under whose charge I had moved about from lodging-house to lodging-house since I was four years of age.
'Well,' said Captain Knowlton, 'if I had not known him, I should not be here to-day.'
He became silent for a few moments, and then added, as he took my hand and drew me against his knee, 'Your father once saved my life, Jack. How old are you?' he asked.
'Eleven next month,' I replied, and,