William, forgetting that he had not rung the bell, wondered why no one came to the door, and half attracted by the view of a painter’s room, and half urged by the wish to find some one to whom he could deliver his message, he cleared the steps at a bound, and stood before the open door.  He looked within; no one was there; and as he stood he could plainly see the picture, which was a Scripture subject.  Was it wrong that he ventured, the shoemaker’s boy with a painter’s heart, step by step quite within the precincts of that chamber?  So lost in pleasant observation was he, so perfectly guileless, he never once thought that, however innocent, his motive for intruding might be mistaken.  He stood rapt and immovable before the picture, forgetful of everything but his present enjoyment, so that he did not hear the opening of a door behind him, nor that a footstep was approaching.

It was Mr. Stewart himself, who, having left his studio but a few minutes before, was now returning to his work; and as his eyes fell upon this unexpected guest, he at first was disposed to believe him some young vagabond who had come in to pilfer.  But the statue-like attitude of the boy, the fixed look with which he surveyed the picture, and the gaiter boots which dangled by their connecting string from his arm, his whole appearance making him a fit subject for study, soon banished suspicion, and with all the sympathies of a most benevolent nature aroused, he stood silent for a moment, for he hesitated to disturb so visible an enjoyment.

But as there was no knowing how long the survey might last, he at length advanced, and touching our little shoemaker on the shoulder, said, in a playful tone, “Why, boy, you must love pictures as well as does a painter; have you not been dreaming long enough?  Tell me, now, what brought you here?”

Fully aroused, William turned to answer and apologize; but when he looked into the face of the gentleman before him the words died on his lips.  Mr. Stewart himself was not without astonishment, as, when William pulled off his cap, he recognised the features of the orphan boy in whose grief he had long ago sympathized so deeply, and he once more spoke.

“I believe we have seen each other before,” said he; “are you not the boy I met in the grave-yard at M——?”

“Yes, sir,” answered William; “and I have got the little picture which you coloured for me still.”

“You are, then, really the same boy?” said Mr. Stewart; “but tell me, how did you get here? and what are you doing in this room?”

“Oh, sir,” he replied, as he blushed deeply, “please forgive me; my master sent me with the shoes, and when I saw the door open and the picture, I could not help it.  Indeed I did not mean any harm.”

“I believe you,” rejoined Mr. Stewart; “and now tell me how you got to New York, and what you are doing.”

Our little shoemaker did so with his usual openness and candour; and, accustomed never to swerve from, the straightforward and direct line of truth, the stamp of that virtue was so apparent in all he said, that the kindly sympathies of Mr. Stewart were once more awakened in his behalf.  He was, however, too prudent to excite any hope which he might afterward be obliged to crush; so telling our hero where to go in order to deliver his errand, he took up his pallet and began to paint.