methods. It appeared that Beilstein had kept him in the best
reproductions of the master. But on this point the disciple was reticent,
evading my questions by a motion to go. 'I'm not for long probably,' he
said, as he refused a second glass. 'You've been patient while I've
talked--I can't to most--and I don't want you to remember me drunk. Take
good care of yourself, and, generally speaking, don't start your whisky
till your day's painting is done.' I stood for some minutes on the corner
of Broadway as his gaunt form merged into the glow that fell full into
Cedar Street from the setting sun. I wondered if the hour recalled the
old days on the farm and the formation of his first manner.

"However that may be, his premonition was right enough. The next winter I
read one morning that the body of Campbell Corot had been taken from the
river at the foot of Cedar Street. It was known that his habits were
intemperate, and it was probable that returning from a saloon he had
walked past his door and off the dock. His cards declared him to be a
landscape painter, but he was unknown in the artistic circles of the
city. I wrote to the authorities that he was indeed a landscape painter
and that the fact should be recorded on his slab in Potter's Field. I was
poor and that was the only service I could do to his memory."

The Painter ceased. We all rose to go and were parting at the doorway
with sundry hems and haws when the Patron piped up anxiously, "Do you
suppose he painted my Corot?" "I don't know and I don't care," said the
Painter shortly. "Damn it, man, can't you see it's a human not a
picture-dealing proposition?" sputtered the Antiquary. "That's right,"
echoed the Critic, as the three locked arms for the stroll downtown,
leaving the bewildered Patron to find his way alone to the Park East.