"
"Then you are a little prodigy," said the artist, slapping him upon the
shoulder. "I must take you in hand. You have nothing else to do; come here
regularly every day, and I'll teach you. Will you come?"
"Certainly, if you wish it. But now, tell me, do you really think that
drawing good?" "Well, Charlie, if I had done it, it would be pronounced
very bad for me; but, coming from your hands, it's something astonishing."
"Really, now--you're not joking me?"
"No, Charlie, I'm in earnest--I assure you I am; it is drawn with great
spirit, and the boy that you have put in by the pump is exceedingly well
done."
This praise served as a great incentive to our little friend, who, day
after day thenceforth, was found at the studio busily engaged with his
crayons, and making rapid progress in his new art.
He had been thus occupied some weeks, and one morning was hurrying to the
breakfast-table, to get through his meal, that he might be early at the
studio, when he found Mrs. Bird in her accustomed seat looking very sad.
"Why, what is the matter?" he asked, on observing the unusually grave face
of his friend.
"Oh, Charlie, my dear! I've received very distressing intelligence from
Philadelphia. Your father is quite ill."
"My father ill!" cried he, with a look of alarm.
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