ecilia," he said one day to his wife; "I want
exactly the right kind of a man for there is a great opportunity to
improve and beautify the place."

While his papa and mamma were talking, Bertie sat on a cricket before
a wooden chair which he had borrowed of Mrs. Taylor from the kitchen.
Winnie was by his side, and he was teaching her to make a penny spin
around so that it looked like a ball.

CHAPTER II.

THE SICK WORKMAN.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Curtis noticed that their son listened to the
conversation; but he did, and remembered it.

The next day he harnessed Whitefoot into his donkey carriage as soon
as he had read his chapter, with his mamma, and drove away with all
speed to Woodlawn.

Mr. Fuller and most of the workmen had left; but Joe Allen and his
father were busy in the conservatory which they were just finishing.
It was a beautiful building, the centre much higher than the rest, to
be filled with climbing roses, vines, etc.; the sides sloped off until
they were only high enough to allow free entrance at the doors. It was
finished in a highly ornamental manner, and in the distance resembled
a heathen pagoda.

This was Joe's first effort at architecture; and he was proud of it.
When he left Oxford he was going directly to Mr. Bryant's with whom
his kind friend Mr. Curtis had made arrangements for him to study and
perfect himself in his chosen pursuit.

Joe was not at work when Bertie found him; he was giving directions to
the man who had brought a load of marble blocks for the walks.

The little fellow found he would be busy for some time; so he
sauntered on to the back of the building till he came to the painter
Mr. Dodge, who was engaged in setting some panes of glass which had
been broken. He smiled directly when he saw Bertie, but he did not
speak, and presently the child noticed he was very pale. Occasionally
he put his handkerchief to his mouth; and the little fellow was
frightened when he saw that it was spotted with blood.

"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, "you are sick. You must go home, and send
for the Doctor."

"I confess I don't feel like moving a mountain this morning," answered
Dodge, with a sickly laugh; "I'm on my last job at painting. Did you
know it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wasn't brought up to be a painter; and it doesn't agree with me."

"What did you do before?"

"Oh, I turned my hand to anything! I took up painting because it paid
best at the time, and I had my mothe