Herbert Coleman had finished his scanty and unsatisfying breakfast, and was seated before his easel, on which was an unfinished picture. He gazed at it mournfully, for the conviction was deepening in his mind that he must bid farewell to art. Chosen mistress of his affections, she had treated him but coldly. She had admitted him to the threshold of her domain. He was permitted to view the glories in which he must not share. A career was opened before him, which it would have been his highest happiness to follow,—in which he could see others making their way successfully; but Necessity, with stern and forbidding countenance, waved him back as with a sword.

Yes, he must bid farewell to art. At the age of twenty-one, he felt that the happiness of his life was over. Henceforth, he must cherish in his heart aspirations which he would never be able to realize. He must descend from the clouds, and plod on in the prosaic way in which his uncle, with more common tastes, had found happiness and prosperity. But the transition from art to groceries was indeed great. Yet there seemed no alternation. If it were possible to find employment for a part of the day, sufficient to defray expenses reduced to the lowest amount compatible with health, that would be preferable. But this was uncertain, and, meanwhile, his purse was almost empty.

“I might as well accept my uncle’s offer, at once,” he said, to himself, despondently. “Nothing is likely to turn up in twenty-four hours to affect my decision. Come, I will write the letter now, and not mail it till to-morrow.”

Feeling that his mind would be relieved by taking a decisive step, he opened his desk, and, taking out a sheet of note-paper, had got as far as “Dear Uncle,” when there was a little tap at his door. He rose, and, opening it, discovered Helen and Mr. Sharp.

“Good morning, Helen,” he said, cheered, he knew not why, by her expression; “I am glad to see you.”

“Herbert, you have heard me speak of Mr. Sharp, papa’s friend. He desires to make your acquaintance.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Sharp,” said the young artist, looking a little curiously at the perpetual white hat, whose general appearance age had, by no means, improved.

“Thank you, Mr. Herbert,” said the lawyer, nodding pleasantly. “Excuse my familiar use of your name, but Miss Helen has not mentioned any other.”

“Mr. Coleman, excuse me,” said Helen, blushing a little. “How stupid I am!”

“By no means, my dear young lady. But, Mr. Coleman, Miss Helen has told me that you were an artist, and her commendations of one of your pictures have excited my interest; and I have come to ask, as a favor, that you will allow me to look at it.”

“Certainly, sir. I am afraid, however, that you will find Miss Helen’s friendship has dulled her critical powers. This is probably the painting to which you refer.”

In a moment of despondency, he had turned his painting of the “Country Farm-house” to the wall. The high hopes which he had formed of its success, and their signal failure, produced a revulsion of feeling, which made it unpleasant for him to look at it.

“This is indeed beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, admiringly. (In this case he was sincere, though, had it been the merest daub, he would have expressed equal admiration.) “Mr. Coleman, I congratulate you. There are touches in that painting which indicate genius of a high order. I predict that you will, ere many years, achieve a high place in the roll of our native artists.”

Herbert smiled sadly, and glanced significantly at Helen. This praise, coming at a time when he had resolved to cut adrift from the profession of his love, was a source of pain rather than pleasure. He felt the more that it would be a fatal mistake, but, nevertheless, one that seemed inevitable.

Helen’s expression perplexed him. It was one of quiet happiness. Yet she must know the necessity that was upon him.

“I like this painting,” continued the lawyer, “chiefly because of its truth to nature. The highest praise I can give it is that I have seen precisely such a farm-house. The scene is one familiar to those who know anything of country-life. May I inquire, Mr. Coleman, whether this painting is for sale?”

“Yes, sir,” said Herbert, brightening up a little, though he hardly judged, from Mr. Sharp’s appearance, that he was likely to become a patron of art. “Young artists cannot afford to keep their works on hand. I may add, frankly, that my circumstances are such that I shall be very glad to find a purchaser.”

“I don’t ask in my own behalf,” said Mr. Sharp. “Though I am passionately fond of fine paintings, my means are restricted, and my professional income will not permit me to indulge in such luxuries. But I am authorized by one of my clients, to purchase him a painting. He confides implicitly to my taste. May I inquire what price you set upon this painting?”

The young artist’s face brightened up with new-born hope. Perhaps he might be able to send a negative answer to his uncle, after all.

“Should you consider fifty dollars too large?” he said, hesitatingly, fearing lest it might exceed Mr. Sharp’s limit.

“Fifty dollars, Mr. Coleman! You surely cannot be in earnest.”

“I am a young artist,” stammered Herbert, “and, perhaps, may have set too high a value upon my work. You shall have it at your own price.”

“You mistake me, my young friend, if you will permit me to call you so. I was only surprised at the lowness of your price. My friend has authorized me to pay two hundred dollars for such a work as my taste approves. I shall not think of offering you less for this beautiful painting.”

“Two hundred dollars!” exclaimed Herbert, in joyful excitement. “Are you really in earnest?”

“Most unquestionably.”

“I am very grateful to you, sir; you can’t understand how great a service you have rendered me,” said Herbert, grasping Mr. Sharp’s hand, and wringing it with cordial energy. “Just as you came in I was on the point of writing a letter, accepting a proposition which would cut me off forever from my favorite work.”

“You won’t write it, now, Herbert?” said Helen, archly.

“I shall write a different letter, Helen. Once more, Mr. Sharp, let me thank you.”

“I do not deserve your thanks. Some day I will introduce you to the real purchaser of the painting. Meanwhile, I have a commission for you. I am authorized, by my friend, to order another picture at the same price. Will you undertake it?”

“Most willingly; most gratefully.”

“The subject shall be left to your own taste and judgment.”

“I hope to deserve this generous confidence.”

“Perhaps, Herbert, you would rather go into your uncle’s store,” said Helen, smiling happily.

“I am afraid Uncle Zebina must look elsewhere for an assistant,” said the young artist. “I must not forget, dear Helen, that my good fortune comes through you.”

“You have been very kind to me, Herbert. I hope I shall be able to do more for you hereafter.”

“I regret, Mr. Coleman,” said the lawyer, “that I am unable to pay you this morning for your painting. I hope to be able to pay you next week.”

“That will be quite satisfactory, sir.”

“Meanwhile, as one who understands the world a little better than yourself, to suggest that, if your painting could be on exhibition a few days,—at Goupil’s, for instance,—with the name of the artist, and the label, ‘Sold,’ it might be of assistance to you. It will give the impression that your works are in demand.”

“A most excellent suggestion, for which I thank you. If your friend would be willing?”

“I undertake to engage that there will be no objection. Depend upon it, my young friend, there is nothing succeeds so well as success.”

“You may be sure, sir, that I appreciate your friendly feeling no less than the liberal patronage I have received through you. You have probably determined my future.”

“That will be a source of proud satisfaction to me, Mr. Coleman,” said the lawyer. “Let me suggest that you lose no time in making an arrangement to exhibit your painting, as proposed. It might do no harm to affix the price for which it was sold.”

“Thank you, sir. It is well thought of. I shall certainly adopt your suggestion.”

“I believe I must now bid you good morning,” said the lawyer. “I have important business on hand, and have been beguiled already into remaining here too long. Good morning, Miss Helen. I shall take a very early opportunity to call again upon you and your worthy father. You will hear from me before long, Mr. Coleman, in a way that will, I trust, prove satisfactory to you.”

Mr. Sharp bowed his way down stairs, leaving two happy hearts behind him. He, too, was in excellent spirits. As Mr. Ford’s man of business, he would be liberally paid, and no longer be reduced to those shifts to which, in times past, he had been compelled to resort, for the purpose of “getting along.”

Helen lingered a moment after the lawyer departed.

“Now to finish Uncle Zebina’s letter,” said Herbert, briskly. “It will be a letter different from what I anticipated.”

The letter ran as follows:—

“Dear Uncle Zebina: I thank you for your very kind offer, though I shall be unable to accept it. I feel that I shall be happier as an artist, than I could be in any other vocation. I am confident that you will have no difficulty in securing an assistant who will suit you better than I should do. Give my love to aunt Desire. Tell her and all my friends that I hope to see them all at Thanksgiving.

“P. S. I have just sold a painting for two hundred dollars, and have an order for another at the same price.”

This letter, it may be remarked, more especially the postscript, made quite a sensation in Herbert’s country home; and Uncle Zebina allowed that perhaps Herbert was doing better, after all, than if he had become a house painter.