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Chapter I

The Artist

If one had been seeking for a man who combined all the qualities of goodness and greatness, one would have chosen artist Laurier. He bore the title of “Master of Arts” and his works, mostly landscapes, were famous far and wide. He had amassed a considerable fortune, and his house was the handsomest building in the city, equipped with every luxury. Besides, it was the home in which all artists, rich or poor, found welcome at all times.

But conditions changed. Hard times, following quickly in the wake of recent wars, had made the demand for art, particularly painting, less and less urgent, till there was no market whatever for the artist’s works. Little by little, he had to draw upon his capital in order to support his family. However, he continued to paint with unabated diligence, for he hoped with the betterment of the times to sell his paintings; or if he should not be permitted to live so long, he would leave them as a heritage, for the benefit of his wife and children.

Alas, the great man did not live to carry out his purpose. A contagious disease swept over the country, numbering him among its victims; and he intuitively felt that he would never again rise from his sick bed.

One morning, following a night filled with great pain and misgivings, his dutiful wife was seated at his bedside trying to cloak the great sorrow which she felt at his approaching death. His two little daughters stood at the foot of his bed. The dying man looked tenderly at his wife and children, and said: “Be comforted and weep not. True, I can bequeath you but little; but God, the Father of the widow and orphans, will watch over you.” He then invoked God’s blessing upon them, and with his last breath said, “In heaven we shall meet again.” His eyes closed and he passed out of this life. Mother and daughters stood convulsed in tears.

The widow now found herself in very straightened circumstances. Her house was so heavily mortgaged that she could no longer hold it. The pictures which her husband had bequeathed to her were valuable as works of art, but the widow could not realize their worth in money. Soon it became imperative to sell them at auction, at any price. Before the day set for the sale, mother and daughters saw, with anguish, these works hurried off to the auction room. The house, too, fell under the hammer. The poor, miserable family left the home in which they had lived for many years in love, peace and contentment. Still, a certain pride and satisfaction filled the widow’s heart when she realized that, though her husband had died poor, yet he owed no one a penny–that his name stood in the community respected and revered by all the good people. The poor particularly held him in loving memory.

The widow was obliged to seek a new home in a cheap section of the city. She was an expert in all household arts, particularly in the art of sewing. Each night found the widow busily engaged with her work, the proceeds of which kept the wolf from the door.

Her two daughters, whom she had brought up with the utmost care, were her only joy. They grew into beautiful girlhood, were modest and good, and loved their mother with all the tenderness of devoted childhood. They, too, helped with the sewing; and their combined efforts, though feeble, were not without visible returns.

Mother and daughters often talked about their departed father. “It gives me great pain,” said the mother, “that every picture which your father painted should have been taken from us. If it were but a little landscape that we possessed, how happy I should be. It would enrich our otherwise barren home and make it equal to the most beautiful salon of the grandest castle.”