“No one knew of my painting.  I would keep it a profound secret, till it was a complete and glorious success.  So I worked on in my quiet studio, draping before a cheval-glass for my women, attitudinizing and agonizing for my men, until the last touches were on, the varnish dry, and it was all ready for the Spring Exhibition.  Then came doubts and speculations.  Would it be accepted?  Was it good, after all?  Would Ellen like it?  How would it seem among so many others?  Should I take her to look at it?  Should I tell her it was mine?  Who would buy it?

“I had hired my studio under an assumed name, and under an assumed name sent my picture to the Academy.  Now, when I went to see it, I found it, by some strange chance, hung next to a beautiful portrait by Huntington.  The juxtaposition gave me a new idea.  I saw at once what a villanous daub mine was, and went away oppressed with shame and a new-found modesty.  Some time after this I strolled again into the Exhibition, in the hope of finding Miss Wilson; as I entered the vestibule, I met her coming out.

“‘Oh, Mr. Martin!’ she exclaimed, ’I am just going away, but I must turn back, and show you the funniest picture!  So theatrical!  So distorted!’

“‘Does it hang next to a lady in a purple shawl, by Huntington?’

“’Yes.  Of course I might have known you would appreciate it, you are such a good critic of pictures.  Isn’t it the very worst specimen of art you ever saw?’

“Can you imagine my feelings?”

“I think I can.”

“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.