She found it steep and stony, and difficult enough. Rigid economy was necessary and we children, of course, felt the pinch of it, though mother guarded us all she could; but we had each other, and I am certain none of us ever regretted the decision which had cut us off from grandaunt’s bounty. Yet even the most rigid economy would not have availed, but for a fortunate chance—or, perhaps I would better say, a meting out of tardy justice.
One morning—it was a Saturday, and so I chanced to be at home—there came a knock at the door, and when I answered it, I saw standing there a man with a close-bearded face and long, shaggy hair. He inquired for Mrs. Truman, and I asked him in and ran for mother.
“You are the widow of George Truman, I believe, madam?” he said, rising as she entered the room.
“Yes,” mother answered. “Did you know him?”
“Not personally, I am sorry to say,” replied the stranger; “but I know him intimately through his work. It was never appraised at its true value during his lifetime—”
“No,” agreed mother, quickly, “it was not.”
“But he is coming to his own at last, madam. The world treated him just as it has treated so many others—stones while he lived, laurels when he died.”
A quick flush had come to mother’s face and an eager light to her eyes.
“Are you speaking seriously, sir?” she asked, her hands against her breast.
“Most seriously,” he assured her. “Did you see the report of that sale of paintings at the Fifth Avenue Art Galleries last week? No? Well, one of your husband’s was among them—‘Breath on the Oat’—no doubt you remember it. Do you happen to know what your husband got for it?”