“May I presume to ask your name, madam?” said I, after a pause.

“It would do no good to mention it,” she replied, mournfully.  “It has cost me a painful effort to come to you; and now that my hope has proved, alas! in vain, I must beg the privilege of still remaining a stranger.”

She arose, as she said this.  Her figure was tall and dignified.  Dropping me a slight courtesy, she was turning to go away, when I said,

“But, madam, even if I have not the ability to grant your request, I may still have it in my power to aid you in this matter.  I am ready to do all I can; and, without doubt, among the friends of your husband will be found numbers to step forward and join in affording you the assistance so much desired, when they are made aware of your present extremity.”

The lady made an impatient gesture, as if my words were felt as a mockery or an insult, and turning from me, again walked from the room with a firm step.  Before I could recover myself, she had passed into the street, and I was left standing alone.  To this day I have remained in ignorance of her identity.  Cheerfully would I have aided her to the extent of my ability to do so.  Her story touched my feelings and awakened my liveliest sympathies, and if, on learning her name and making proper inquiries into her circumstances, I had found all to be as she had stated, I would have felt it a duty to interest myself in her behalf, and have contributed in aid of the desired end to the extent of my ability.  But she came to me under the false idea that I had but to put my hand in my pocket, or write a check upon the bank, and lo! a thousand dollars were forthcoming.  And because I did not do this, she believed me unfeeling, selfish, and turned from me mortified, disappointed, and despairing.

I felt sad for weeks after this painful interview.  On the very next morning I received a letter from an artist, in which he spoke of the extremity of his circumstances, and begged me to purchase a couple of pictures.  I called at his rooms, for I could not resist his appeal.  The pictures did not strike me as possessing much artistic value.

“What do you ask for them?” I inquired.

“I refused a hundred dollars for the pair.  But I am compelled to part with them now, and you shall have them for eighty.”

I had many other uses for eighty dollars, and therefore shook my head.  But, as he looked disappointed, I offered to take one of the pictures at forty dollars.  To this he agreed.  I paid the money, and the picture was sent home.  Some days afterward, I was showing it to a friend.

“What did you pay for it?” he asked.

“Forty dollars,” I replied.

The friend smiled strangely.

“What’s the matter?” said I.

“He offered it to me for twenty-five.”

“That picture?”

“Yes.”

“He asked me eighty for this and another, and said he had refused a hundred for the pair.”