not know I had so talented a neighbor. I shall be glad to be better
acquainted with you. I presume your picture is for sale."

"Not so, sir," replied the artist, coldly. "It is a reminiscence of
earlier and happier days. It was painted for my own satisfaction, and
I shall keep it as long as I have a place to hang it in. It is a
common mistake, sir, with our patrons, to suppose they can buy our
souls as well as our labor."

Mr. Greville's cheek flushed; but as he glanced at the shabby exterior
and wan face of the artist, his color faded, and he answered gently--

"Believe me, Mr. Montfort, I am not one of the persons you
describe--if, indeed, they exist elsewhere but in your imagination. I
should be the last person to fail in sympathy for the high-toned
feelings of an artist; for in early life I was thought to manifest a
talent for art--and, indeed, I had a strong desire to follow the
vocation."

"And you abandoned it--you turned a deaf ear to the divine
inspiration--you preferred wealth to glory--to be one of the vulgar
many rather than to belong to the choice few. I congratulate you, Mr.
Greville, on your taste."

"You judge me harshly, Mr. Montfort," replied the gentleman,
pleasantly. "I am hardly required to justify my choice of calling to a
perfect stranger; and yet your very frankness induces me to say a word
or two of the motives which impelled me. My parents were poor. An
artist's life seemed to hold no immediate prospects of competence.
They to whom I owed my being might die of want before I had