in its adversity.

"Whither away, in such haste?" asked one young artist of another in
the streets of Florence.

"To Signor Carlton's, the American artist," was the reply.

"All Florence is after him-what want you?"

"He is to give a finishing touch to a bit of canvass for me."

"That's clever of him."

"Yes, since no one can do so well as he," was the ready
acknowledgement.

Thus were the tables completely turned. Little did his former
companions and fellow-students dream of this transition of good
fortune to the share of him they had so lately scoffed at in the
open streets of Florence. One, to see their ready obeisance now, and
their earnest endeavors to please him, would hardly think they had
ever treated him with less respect.

So goes the world. If ill fortune betide us, how many stand ready to
give us a push on our downward course, and to scoff at our misery;
but let the tide turn and set favorably on our bark, and none are so
ready to do obeisance as those very curs who have barked and growled
at us the loudest. Carlton, the court favorite, the unrivalled
artist, the now liberal and wealthy Carlton, was a very different
person from the threadbare artist who turned from his companions on