The other,—alas! for the contrast,—dressed in a long overcoat of faded brown cloth, resembled a living skeleton. His face was terribly emaciated; his cheeks sunken; his eyes hollow. His voice was low and husky. As he spoke, his eyes lighted up like fire-coals, and seemed to burn in his sallow and withered face. His hair, black as jet, and straight and long, only made his countenance seem more pale and death-like. He was evidently in the last stage of consumption, and his dress, neat as it was,—the faded brown coat, and much-worn hat carefully brushed,—betokened poverty, and the saddest poverty of all,—that which tries, and vainly, to hide itself under a "decent" exterior.
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.