"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.