And thus they met, at the corner of Chambers street and Broadway, Lewis Harding, the rich broker and man of fashion, and John Martin, the poor artist and--dying man. They had been playmates and school-fellows in other years. Five years ago, they left the academy, in a country town, to try their fortunes in the world; both orphans, both young, both full of life and hope, and--poor. Harding had taken the world _as he found_ it, adopted its philosophy,--"Success is the only test of merit,"--and became a rich broker and a man of fashion. John Martin had taken the world as it _ought to have been_,--believed in the goodness of mankind, and in the certainty of honest success following honest labor--of hand and brain,--steadily devoted to the elevation of man. He became an artist, and,--we see him before us now. "Why, Jack, my dear fellow, what are you doing out in the cold air?" said Harding, in his kindly voice. "You ought to be more careful of yourself,----" "I am out in the cold air, because I cannot breathe freely in the house," answered the artist, with a smile on his cadaverous lips. "But you have no cough,--you'll be better in spring." "True, I have no cough, but the doctor informed me to-day that my right lung was entirely gone, and my left hard after it; the simple truth is, I am wasting to death; and I hate the idea of dying in bed. I want to keep on my feet,--I want to keep in the air,--I want to die on my feet." Harding had rapidly grown into a man of the world, but somehow the tears started into his eyes. "But you must keep up your spirits, Jack,--in the spring you will be----" "In my grave, Harding; there's no use of lying about it." And his eyes flared up, and a bitter smile moved his lips. "O, how's the wife and children?" said Harding; as though anxious to change the conversation. "They are well," said John, and a singular look passed over his face. "And your sister?" "Eleanor is well,"--and the vivid brightness of his eyes was for a moment vailed in moisture. "O, by-the-bye, I met Nelly the other day," said Harding. "Bless my soul! what a handsome little girl she has grown! It was in a store where they sell embroidered work. I was pricing a set of regalia,--thirty dollars they said was the price,--and little Nell had worked on it about three weeks for five dollars. Great world, Jack!" "Good night, Harding," said the artist, quietly. "But let me accompany you home,----" "I'd rather you would not. Good night, Harding." "But God bless you, John, can't I do anything for you?" "Why, why after I am dead,"--and the words seemed to stick in his throat,--"after I am dead,--my wife,--my sister,----" he could say no more.