tered the vestibule, I met her
coming out.

"'Oh, Mr. Martin!' she exclaimed, 'I am just going away, but I _must_
turn back, and show you the _funniest_ picture! So theatrical! So
distorted!'

"'Does it hang next to a lady in a purple shawl, by Huntington?'

"'Yes. Of course I might have known you would appreciate it, you are
such a good critic of pictures. Isn't it the very worst specimen of art
you ever saw?'

"Can you imagine my feelings?"

"I think I can."

"This was not all, however. That afternoon I went to my now forsaken
studio, previous to taking my departure from it forever. I was carefully
packing my materials, when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and
an elderly, shrewd-looking man walked into the room.

"'Are you T. Markham Worthington?' he asked.

"'I am a friend of his.'

"'Authorized to sell his picture in the Academy, Number ----?'

"'Yes.'

"'How much does he ask for it?'

"'How much are you willing to give?'

"'Not more than twenty-five dollars,'

"'That will do. Where shall it be sent?'

"He paid the money, wrote the address, and, bowing, left the studio.
Twenty-five dollars just paid for the frame. Who had bought my picture?
I looked at the card:--

'PARKER J. SPERRY,
'_Yankee Pie Depot_,
'126 ---- Street.'"

"Did you ever paint again?"

"Once only. I made a portrait of my sister-in-law, and sent it to her in
a gorgeous frame. I happened to go into her sitting-room, one morning,
when she was out, and found my picture hanging with its face to the
wall. I turned it round. Directly across the mouth was pasted a white
label, on which I saw neatly printed in India-ink,--'Queen of the
Deplorables.' I took it home with me, and hung it in my library as a
lesson to me for all future time.

"So," said Martin, throwing away the of his third cigar, "you have heard
my experience. May you profit by it! I am now in the pork-packing
business, and make a handsome income for my wife and two children.
To-morrow I go to New York, to bring them into these wilds for change of
air. And now, good night."

* * * * *

ROBERT AND CLARA SCHUMANN.

FLORESTAN'S STORY.

I.

In every person's memory there are niches fixed, and in those niches are
sacred persons. These are such as never obtruded themselves upon you,
staining the pane through which their light shone with their own images,
but who became perfectly transparent to the word they ut