“That is easily ascertained,” replied his companion, turning to the catalogue which he held in his hand; “Cunningham, Louis Cunningham. There are several other fine pictures in the gallery by the same person. Do you know him, William?”
“He is an old school-mate and particular friend,” replied William; “I must inquire if he resides in this city.”
Louis Cunningham’s address was easily obtained, and William had the pleasure of hearing him spoken of as a young artist of uncommon talents. At an early hour the following morning he sought his early friend, and received a warm welcome. Louis’s story was soon told. His mother’s situation in life had been improved, by a legacy left by a distant relative, and she was thus enabled to give her son many advantages. He had travelled in Europe, and received the best instruction in his favorite pursuit, and his name was now becoming widely known as one of our best American artists.
“But I have not forgotten the old school-house, and our boyish days, dear William,” he continued; “and I do not forget that my first instructions in drawing were received through your kindness. It was a bright day to me when I was first seated at the drawing-table, and allowed free access to your pencils and paper.”
“I remember it, as if it were but yesterday,” replied William. “We had indulged a strange prejudice against you up to that day, Louis. My father had labored hard that bright and beautiful morning, to show me the sin of which I was guilty, in indulging such feelings, and his words sunk deep in my heart. When I parted from him, at school time, he remarked on the beautiful appearance of the earth, clad in its robe of silver, but pointed out the new beauty it would receive when the rays of the sun should fall upon it; and he prayed that the rays of the spiritual sun might thus vivify and add new beauty to the good resolutions springing up in my mind, that the silver morning might become the golden day.”
“It was indeed a golden day to me,” said Louis, with emotion. “A fountain of kind feelings, which had been checked by the coldness of my companions, gushed forth at the kindness with which you treated me; and it seemed as if from that time all coldness toward me disappeared, and I was treated by all with kindness which I have ever remembered with gratitude. The little picture which you saw in the gallery is a proof of my remembrance of that day. You must take it to your father, as a token of my respect and love.”
“I will gladly do so,” replied William. “My father will receive it with pleasure, and it shall hang in our room as a memento of our early friendship, and of a day which I shall always remember with pleasing reflections.”
TWO SIDES TO A STORY.
“I should not think you would let him off so easily, father,” exclaimed Herbert Archer, as he listened to a conversation between his father and a poor tenant who begged for a little delay in the usual demand for the rent.
“And why not, my son?” replied Mr. Archer, as they continued the walk which had been thus interrupted. “He is poor and has been unfortunate. The wealthy should not be indifferent to the sufferings of those less prosperous than themselves.”