perhaps I would better say, a meting out of tardy justice. [Pg 19] 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. [Pg 20] [Pg 20] “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?” “Yes,” said mother, “I remember very well. It was one of his first triumphs. He sold it for one hundred dollars.” Our visitor laughed a little cynically, and his face clouded for a moment. “Well, Senator Bloom paid four thousand for it last week,” he said. “Of course, the senator is not much of a judge of pictures, but a representative from the Metropolitan went to three thousand, which shows the way the wind’s blowing. Your husband’s lot was one common to artists. It’s the dealers who get rich—not all of them,” he added, with a wry little smile. “For I’m a dealer. That’s what brings me here. I thought you might perhaps have a few of his pictures still in your possession. I’ll promise to treat you fairly.” “There are only some studies, I
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