"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.