Evening Star Newspaper, August 14, 1897, Page 20

Goud ESCORTS OW _ FHEWALTO < TIELBOURYES TOR PICK BALLARAT. THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1897-94 PAGES. SSS——————oaoooooooooooooa—o—————_ THE CITY OF HUTS AND TENTS z= TNERS KICKING FOR GOL! BALLARAT « SCENES ON THE BALLARAT GOLD FIELDS. 7 THE LUST FOR GOLD —_—_e Shown in the Mad Rush for the Bal- larat Mines > AS IN THE CASE OF KLONDIKE Fields Seemed Even Richer in Virgin Metal. Australian FORTUNES MADE IN A DAY ——_+—__—_ Written for The Evering Star. HE ALASKA GOLD fields are not the richest in the world for virgin gold; nor are the “finds” there more sensational \) than those in the famous Australian fields in Victoria. The fevered excitement and mad rush to the Klondike gold fields recalls the scenes and human pictures of the Ballarat and Bendigo (sandhurst) gold fields of Aus- tralic. Ballarat and Bendigo proved to be the richest finds, and the richest aurifer- cus bed the world has ever seen. For more than three years after the first discovery of gold on the field “toe-pick miners” walk- vs and the ravines hunting for on the surface; perhaps on no ed fielils in the world were so many and valuable nuggets ever found than on these neighboring fields of Ballarat and Bendigo, in the colony of Victoria. “Toe-pick miners” were those without who simply walked about the field and picked up the yellow “pebbles” @s they could find them among the sand and stones which they scattered with the tees of their shoes. They kicked for gold; strange to say, they were highly rewarded for their silly effort—silly from a miner’s ont. A singular example of the luck se “toe-picks” was a young lover ad heard the marvelous stories of gold at Ballarat. He was a “new chum,” but he had a sweetheart. One morning he bade her tearful face good-bye, picked up a big lemonade bottle, and left Geelong for the fields, sixty mfles up in the Black Hills, promising her that he would return and Marry her as soon as he had picked up the lemonade bottle full of nuggets, which, he assured her, wouldn't be much longer than it would take him to walk there and back. A Bottle Full of Gold. Reaching Ballarat the young enthusiast began kicking the stones and dirt about in search of his treasure. No more earnest or persistent miner “dished” under the rod of Mt. Buningyong, where the rich find was first made. He had no tent, so he Sept in the open, with his bottle in his clutch. Week passed in and out. On the sxth Sunday he walked into the home of his sweetheart, and handed her a yellow lemonade botue. The virgin nuggets made How. It was full of gold, $15,000 worth. uple married, and upon this fou ticn built their fortunes in Geelong, where they now live, unless the old “home yearn- irg” has drawn them back to their native Keath in England. Facts like these set the Public mind mad. In less than eighteen months from the sensational find at Buningyong, 60,000 peo- ple tented on the Ballarat field, picking, @ishing or kicking for gold. From that day? in 1854, until now there have never been less than 40,000 miners en the field. There are now nearly 160400 people in the city of Ballarat living on the hundreds of miles of drives beneath it, the Band and Albion claim alone having nearly 100 miles of driv nd shafts nearly 3,000 feet deep. Se mad was the rush and so eager the crowd that no one thought of taking time to build a house. For years—until the alluvial country was immeasurably turned over or pegged into fixed claims and the Bendige “rush” diverted the stream—the eity of Ballarat was a camp of white tents. The first brick chimney was a curiosity. It still stands. The gold escorts which brought the fabu- lous treasure Into Melb mile urne gave that 100 -ountry the aspect of a military Every tongue told of the new Eldor- » but no one told of the suffering and vin of the unlucky ones, and no one i his head cool enough to figure out the loss an alluvial field was to the coun- try. Men foolishly soid their farms, stock. stores, boats, jewels, or whatever, and rushed pell mell to this excited canvas city, Ralf prepared, and either ate and tramped out their gold in search of more gold, or had it mercilessly taken from them. A Million a Day. The cest of living in such an inaccessible Place was, all told, about $20 per day. Thus 150,000 miners were putting $1,000,000 a Gay in the ground and taking out less than $250,000. But no one thought of that. Men everywhere were making rich finds, and the gold escorts were carrying away large ——- of gold. These were inflammable which lured a new batch, and paint- ed a new yellow hope to the erstwhile un- lucky digger. Bendigo was seventy-five miles away, and was as rich nearly as Bal- larat, while nuggety patches chained the road between at Maryboro’, Cluneo, Cus- wick and other places. You could almost speak from man to man along the whole distance, for men tramped back and forth, excited by each new sensational find, pass- ing the news along. Every hill and dale with men in search of the craved n the whole country had been turned over and “dished,” the real mining com- menced on the reefs, and there the real fortunes and the genuine prosperity from the mining industry set in. 1890 (a period of thirty-six years) the colo- ny of Victoria has produced 56,870,574 ounces of gold, worth $1,137,411,480. This was, virtually, all mined from the Ballarat and Bendigo lodes, or reefs, as they are called there. This’ gives an average of over $30,000,000 per year. After working e two great reefs, on which set two = of nearly 100,000 people each, for over a generation, there were taken from the drives beneath them in 1890 over $11,000,000 of gold. Seemed Inexhaustible. A new impetus was given to the mining irdustry at this low ebb when the Band and Albion went down another 1,000 feet in Ball:rat, and George Landsell sent the “180 Victoria North,” in Bendigo, down be- low its 8,000-foot level. Fossicking ceased on both fields more than twenty years ago. Unul this day the old alluvial flats look as if they had been rooted over by hogs look- ing for potatoes. These great fields pro- duced one sensation after another. The riches seemed inexhaustible. While some lucky diggers celebrated their sudden for- tune by lighting cigars with $100 (£20) notes, others, filled with a measure of dis- j Sust, lett for other parts. iner, after spending his all, footsore, d and penniless, threw his Pick vio- to the ground, with an oath. “I'll chuck the whole thing,” he muttered, heartsick with disgust at his utter failure to find even the “color.” The sharp tool struck a hard substance and bounded away. The incident angered the unlucky digger. Gripping the pick with fierce de- termination, he sent it into the same place with terrific force. It bounded further away. In its wild jump he noticed a yel- low streak the point traced in the air. Ex- amining the point, he saw specks of gold. Then his joyous heart overleaped the height of his anger, and he was soon on his kne prodding the dirt about the naughty place which resisted his strength. His eyes bulged wider and wider as his busy hands cleaned the dirt from about the big yellow face, which lay near the surface. The find was the great “Wel- come” nugget. It was a solid mass of vir- gin gold about a foot long, six inches wide and cf irregular shape, with a thickness of two to four inches, and weighed 2,195 ounces. For this piece of gold the miner was paid $43,000. He went home and quit mining. - Nugget Worth $47,760. The “Welcome” is not the biggest nugget ever found. The largest is the ‘Welcome Stranger,” which weighed 2,383% ounces, and was worth $47,760. The “Welcome” was found at Ballarat, June 1, 1858. A model of it is in the Ballarat School of Mines. The “Berlin,” 884 ounces 10 pen- nyweights; enn Tow,” 718 ounces; “Beauty,” 377 ounces 6 pennyweights, are the biggest lumps of native gold found next in size to the above. Since the 60's no large nuggets of sensational size have been found in all Australia. The old surface fossicker left Ballarat diggings nearly a quarter of a century ago, when systematic reefing set in to mine the rock in the bowels of the earth. The last sensation on this famous field was in 1879, when the Hirshfield “pot” was struck. Some one found a sandlode in a yard, and fol- lowed it into a gutter. It was called “golden gully.” It was simply a sandwash lodged in a smail rift, or was the filling up of a small ditch from some rich source. More than 1,000 ounces of gold were taken from it, which netted the owner $25,000, and set every crazy loon to digging up his yard for an expected find. There were over two hundred “Mother Hirshfield,” “Sister Hirshfield,” “Queen’s Hirshfield;’” and the like, with some designating number or prefix named after the original ditch. It is now extinct. Another, the “Gold-Point- Gutter,” took out $300,000 of alluvial gold in forty-four days. : ‘Ten Years of Tent Life. In its ten years of tent and semi-tent life Ballarat put more than twice as much gold in the ground in search of the metal as she took out. It came from other parts, so she did not feel the strain; and, as millions of it came from abroad, Austra- lia did not feel it. She only felt the unrest and the temporary high price of living en- tailed. It remains to be said that the ab- original meaning of Baal-a-arat is, “‘with- out a rat.” The fact is that there is not a rat in the modern, well-built city of 100,000 inhabitants. ‘Those who have attempted to explain this curious circumstance say that it is because of the mineral character of the whole country. Perhaps the hungry miner so cleaned up all the available food at the terribly high price of it that the domestic mouse starved on the cheese cloth. Miners arrived much faster than food. ‘Phey walked and rode everything which could carry them, seldom thinking of food or the price of it. But that is true of every gold field and every feverish rush to a new field. ‘The succeeding generations of man never did profit by the poverty, suffering and failures of the ones before it in gold min- ing. The old fever has lost none of its fer- vor or folly. —_—_.+—_- Starting in Rather Late. From the London Lanest. = A student nanied Bcrysik has just passed the final examination at Warsaw Univers- ity qual‘fying him to practice as a doctor of medicine in Ruseia. Borysik was born in 1822 and was educated at Suvalk Higher From 1854 to | Grade School with a view to becoming a medical man. After passing his matricu- lation lack of furds prevented him from at once proceeding to the university and he was compelled to work as a tutor for twenty years in crdcr to save enough money to erable him to continue his studies. At the end of that time he pre- sented himself at Warsaw Medical Acad- emy and passed the entrance examination with distinction. Before he could begin his studies the Polish rebellion of 1863 broke out, and Borysik, who was now forty-one years of age, threw himself into the movement with all the enthus of a youthful revolu- tionist. Ihe revolt was suppressed «nd Berysik was exiled to Siberia, where for thirty-two years he underwent hard labor In the silver mines. In 1895 he received a free pardon and returned to Warsaw. In spite of his age and the hardships he had endured Berysik had lost none of his en- thusiasin for medical work, and took up his studies where he had left them off in 1863. After a two years’ course this remarkable man has now, at the age of seventy-five years, passed the final medical examination with honors, and will begin to practice in Warsaw. HUMORIST AND SPORT. Bill Nye Had to Be Funny in All Ilis ‘Transactions. Will Visscher in the Chicago Times-Herald Only a few weeks. before his death Nye wrote me from his home at Asheville, N. C., saying: “I have on my farm here a very promising field of rye that looks as if it would run 15 or 20 gallons to the acre. Come down.”” Years ago, when Nye was running an afternoon newspaper in Laramie, Wyo., I went over from Cheyenne one day to pay him a visit. He vas hard at work in his office, which was upstairs over a livery stable, a fact that caused him to live in mortal dread of hay fever. As soon as I went in he said: “Sit dowa there and write something to help me get the paper out, and we will get off quicker and have scme fun with the boys.” “What shall I write about?” “Oh, "bout a column.” So I wrote about a column, “About a Column,” and commented on coluinns. In a little while we were out and Nye led the way to a place where a man kept all sorts of sporting arrange- ments. He had a cockpit for fighting roos- ters in, and a ring for boxers to practic2 on each other, billiard tables, tenpin alleys and other accommodations. While we were there a man came in with a live eagle that he proposed to pit against the pro- rietor’s best bird. The old sport took im up at once and the Roman-nosed bird of freedom was thrown in with a healthy- looking chicken that would have fought @ buzz saw. The rooster made a dab ut the cagle, and that ‘fierce gray bird with @ bending beak” and an unwarranted rep- utation for gameness, ignomintously, in- gloriously and incontinently fled and hid under a chair, where he looked out in a piteous scrt of way and as good as sald: “Take him off; I want to go home.” Among the other things this man of sport had was a badger that he was pre- pared to back for large sums on the state- ment that no dog of anybody's could take the beast out of a barrel that lay length- wise on the floor, with one head knocked out and im which the badger was en- sconsed. I had wondered why it was that Nye had been coaxing an “onary” looking cur to follow us, and now the problem was about to be solved. Nye made a bet that he had a dog that would take the bad- ger out of the barrel. The money was “put up” and Nye caught that dog by the “nape of the neck and seat of his breeches,” so to speak, and threw him into the barrel, tail foremost. The badger nabbed the dog by one ham and the dog went right away from there like a blue streak, taking the badger with him. The last that was ever seen of that dog, or badger either, both were going toward the North Platte river, the dog making the best time he ever had made and the bad- ger hanging straight out behind, a close second. Nye won. ——_~+e-+____ Different. From the New York Weekly. Northern man (down in Florida)— “What's the price of that.orange grove?” Native—Ten thousand dollars, mister. Had the consumption long?” “Consumption? I haven't consumption.” “Just weak lungs, maybe?’ “My lungs are sound as e dollar. I ‘am merely looking for a good place to locate; doesn’t matter to me whether it’s north or south, east or west.” “Oh! Well, I'll let you have that grove for $250.” headed ‘i oo__ Gems of Poetry. From Life. Nts TWO AMERICANS 32 oa Written for The hee Concluded From Last Saturday’s Star. But Miss Helen did-not show that when she had looked after. ‘the retreating figure of her protector as he descended the stairs that night, he was ly carrying away on those broad shoulders the character she had so laboriously gained during her four years’ solitude. For when shé came down the next morring the concierge bowed to her with an air of easy cynical abstraction —the result of a long conversation with his wife the night before. He had taken Hel- en’s part with a kindly cynicism, “Ah, what would you—it was bound to come. The affair of the Conservatoire had settled that. The peor child couid not starve; pen- niless she could not marry. Only why con- scrt with other swallows under the eaves, when she could have had a gilded cage on the, first etage? But girls were so foolish— in’ thelr first affair; then it was alwoys love. The second time they were wiser. And this maimed warrior and painter was as poor as she. A compatriot, too. Well, perhaps that saved some scandal; one could never know what the Americans were ac- customed to do.” The first floor, which had been inclined to be civil to the young teacher, was more so—but less respectful. One or two young men were tentatively familiar until they looked in her gray eyes and remembered the broad shoulders of the painter. Oddly enough, only Mademoiselle Fifine of her own landing exhibited any sym- pathy with her, and for the first time Helen was frightened. She did not show it, how- ever, only she changed her lodgings the next day. But before she left she had a few moments’ conversation with the con- cierge and an exchange of a word or two with some of her fellow lodgers. I have already hinted that the young lady had great precision of statement; she had a pretty tura for handling colloquial French and an incisive knowledge of French char- acter. She ieft No. 34 Rue de Frivole wcrking itself into a white rage, but ut- terly undecided as to her real character. But all this and much more was pres- ently blown away in the hot breath that Swept the boulevards at the outburst of the Franco-German war, and Miss Helen Maynard disappeared from Paris with many of her fellow countrymen. The ex- citement reached even a quaint old chateau in Brittany where Maj. Ostrander was painting. The woman who was standing by his side as he sat before his easel on the broad terrace observed that he looked disturbed. “What matters?” she said, gently. “You have progressed so well tin ycur work that you can finish it elsewhere. I have no great desire to stay in France With a frontier garrisoned by troops while I have a villa in Switzerland where you could still be my guest. Paris can teach you nothing more, my friend; you have only to create now—and be famous.” “I must go to Paris,” he said, quietly. “I have friends—countrymen—there, who may want me now.” “If you mean the young singer of the Rue de Frivole, you have compromised her already. You can do her no good.” “Madame!” The pretty face which he had been fa- millar with for the pest six weeks some- how seemed to change its character. Un- der the mask of dazzling skin he fancied he saw the high cheek Hones ard! square Tar- tar angle; the brilliant eyes were even brighter than before, but ‘they showed mcre of the white thin he had ever’ seen in them. Nevertheless she smiled, with an equal stormy revelation of her.white teeth, and said, still gently: “Forgive me if I thought our friendship justified me in being frank—perhaps tco frank for my own good." Ske stopped as if half expecting an interruption, but a3 he remained looking wonderingly at her she bit her lip and went on: “You have a great career before you. Those who help“you mu&t do so with- out entangling you; @ chain.of roses may be as impeding as lead. Until you are inde- pendent you—wh> may in time compass everything yourself—will need to be helped. mou know,” she added, with 'a smile, ‘you’ out one arm.” : ‘In your kindness and appreciation you have made me forget it,” he stammered. Yet he had a swift vision of the little bench at Versailles where he had not for- gotten it, and es he glanced’ around the empty terrace where they stood he was struck with a fateful resemblance to it. “And I should not remind you now of it,” she went on, “except to say that mcney can always take its place. As in the fairy story, the prince must have a new arm made of gold.” She stopped, and then suddenly coming closer to him, said hur- riedly and almost fiercely: “Can you not see that I am advising you against my in- terests—against myself? Go then to Paris, and go quickly before I change my mind. Only if you do not find your friends there, remember you have always one here.” Be- fore he could reply or even understand that white face, she was gone. He left for Paris that afternoon. He went directly to the Rue de Frivole. His old resolution to avoid Helen was blown to the winds in the prospect of losing her utterly. But the concierge only knew that mademoi- selle had left a day or two after monsieur had accompanied her home. And—pointed- ly—there was another gentleman who had inquired eagerly and bountifully, as far as money went, for any trace of the young lady. It wasa Russe. The concierge smiled to himself at Ostrander’s flushed cheek. It served this one-armed conceited Ameri- can poseur right. Mademoiselle was wiser in this second affair. Ostrander did not finish his picture. The princess sent him a check, which he coldly returned. Neyertheless he had acquired through his Russian patronage a local fame which stuod him well with the picture dealers, in spite of the excitement of the war. But his heart was no longer in his work. A fever of unrest seized him which ee ee a some of the guests, Mert “A most deserving creature,” said Miss de Laine to the Dowager Duchess of Soho, who was passing Sree. Paris on her way to England, “ 5 hardly believe that Poppa knew father when he was-dre of the richest men in South Carolina.” “Your father seems to have been very for- tunate,” said the duchess quietly, “and so are you. Introduce me.” This not being exactly the reply that Miss de Laine ex- pécted, she momentarily hesitated, but the duchess profited by it to walk over to the piano and introduce herself. When she rose to go she ‘invited Helen to lucheon with her the next day. ‘Come early, my dear, and we'll have a long talk.” Helen pointed cut hesitatingly that she was prac- tically a guest of the De ines. “Ah, well! that’s true, my dear; then you may bring one of them with you. Helen went to the luncheon—but was un- accompanied. She had a long talk with the dowager. “I am not rich, my dear, like your friends, and cannot afford to pay you ten napoleons for a song. Like you, I have seen ‘better days.’ But this is no place for you, child—and if you can bear with an old woman’s company for a while, I think I can find you something to do.” That evening Helen left for England with the duchess—a piece of “ingratitude, indell- cacy, and shameless snobbery” which Miss de Laine was never weary of dilating upon. “And to think*I introduced her, though she was a professional.” 2 . SC A6 a See It was three years after. Paris reviving under the republic had forgotten Helen and the American colony; and the American col- ony, emigrating to more congenial courts, had forgotten Paris. It was a bleak day of English summer when Helen, standing by the window of the breakfast 1oom at Hamley Court and looking over the wonderful lawn, kept per-- ennially green by humid English skies, heard the practical masculine voice of the fuchess in her ear, at the same moment that she felt the gentle womanly touch of rer hand on her shoulder. “We are going to luncheon at Moreland Hall today. my dear. iy, we were there only last week!” said Helen. “Undoubtedly,” returned the duchess dry- ly, “and we may luncheon there next week and the next following. And,” she added, looking into her companion’s gray eyes, “it rests with you to stay there if you choose.” Helen stared at her protector. “My dear,” continued the duches, slipping her arm around Helen’s waist, “Sir James has honored me—as became my relations to you—with his confidences. As you haven't given me yours—I suppose you have none, and that I am telling you news when I say that Sir James wishes to mar- ry you.” ‘The unmistakable astonishment in the girl's eyessatisfied the duchess even before her voice. “But he scarcely knows me or anything of me,” said the young girl quickly. “On the contrary, my dear, he knows everything about you. I have been par- ticular in telling him all I knew—and some things even you don’t know and couldn't tell him. For instance, that you are a very nice person. Come, my dear, don’t look 50 stupefied or I shall really ‘think there's something in it that I don’t know. It’s not a laughing nor a crying matter yet—at present it’s only luncheon again with a civil man who has three daughters and a place in the county. Don’t make the mis- take, however, of-refusing him before he offers—whatever you do afterward.” “But—" stammered Helen. “But—you are going to say that you don’t love him and have never thought of him as a husband,” interrupted the duchess; “I read it in your face—and it’s a very proper thing to say.” It is so unexpected,” urged Helen. “Everything is unexpected from a man in these matters,” said the duchess. “We wo- men are the only ones that are prepare “But,” persisted Helen, “if I don’t want to marry at all?” “I should say then that it is a sign that you ought; if you were eager, my dear, I should certainly dissuade you.” She paus- ed, and then drawing Helen closer to her, said with a certain masculine tenderness: “As long as I live, dear, you know that you have a home here. But I am an old woman living on the smallest of settlements. Death is as inevitable to me as marriage should be to you.” Nevertheless they did not renew the con- versation and received the greetings of their host at Moreland Hall with a sim- plicity and frankness that were however, perfectly natural and unaffected in both women. Sir James—a tall, well-preserved man of middle age, with the unmistakable bearing of long years of recognized and unchallenged position—however, exhibited on this occasion that slight consciousness of weakness and susceptibility to ridicule which is apt to indicate the invasion of the tender passion in the heart of the average Briton. His duty as host toward the clder woman of superior rank, however, covered his embarrassment, and for a moment left Helen quite undisturbed to gaze again upon the treasures of the long drawing room of Moreland Hall, with which she was already familiar. There were the half dozen old masters whose respectability had been as recognized through centuries as their own- er’s ancestors; there were the ancestors themselves — wigged, ruffled and white- handed by Vandyke, Lely, Romney and Gainsborough; there were the uniform, ex- pressionless ancestresses in stiff brocade or short-waisted clinging draperies, but all possessing that brilliant coloring which the gray skies outside lacked, and which scem- ed to have departed from the dresses of | their descendants. The American girl had sometimes specu- lated upon what might have been the ap- pearance of the lime tree walk dotted with these gayly plumaged folk, and’ wondered if the tyranny of environment had at last subdued their brilliant colors. And a new feeling touched her.. Like most of her countrywomen, she was strongly affected by the furniture of life; the thought that ail that she saw there might be hers; that she might yet stand in succession to these strange courtiers and stranger shepherd- esses, and, like them, look down from the canvas upon the fatruding foreigner, thrill- ed her for a moment with a half proud, half passive sense of yielding to what seemed to be her fate. A narrow-eyed, stiff-haired Dutch maid of honor before ‘SHE HAS LET YOU COME TO MEY’ another time might have. wasted itself fr mere sores Some of his fellow artists had already gone ifito the army. After the first great reverses he offered his one arm and his military experience to that Paris which had givén him’a home. ‘The old fighting instinct ‘returned to him with @ certain desperation he had never known before. In the sorties from Paris the one- armed American ie famous, until a few days before the capitulation, when he was struck down by a bullet, through the jung, and left in a temperary hospital. Here, in the whirl and terror-of Commune days, he was fo1 en, and’ when Paris revived under the republic ‘he had disap- eared as*completely as his compatriot felen. . But Miss Helen Maynard had been only ebscured and not extinguished. At the first outbreak of hostilities a few Americans had still kept giddy state among the ruins of the tottering empire. A day or two after she left the Rue de Frivole she was invit- ed by one of her wealthy former school- mates to assist with her voice and talent at one of their extravagant entertainments. “You wall oma emt, aitkcy tegen een Laine with ingenious as her old comrades. Stake dress, “that ex] Oo pay you prices Pit may be an friends.” Miss de whom she was standing gazed at her with staring vacancy. Suddenly she started. Before the portrait upon a fanciful easel stood a small, elaborately framed sketch in oils. It was evidently some recently impor- ted treasure. She had not seen it before. As she moved quickly forward, she recog- nized in a glance that it was Ostrander's sketch from the Paris grenier. The wall, the room, the park beyond, even the gray sky, seemed to fade away before her. She was standing once more at her attic window looking across the roofs and chimney stacks upward to the blue sky of Pi Through a gap in the roofs she aris. cculd see the chestnut trees trilling in the little square; she could hear the swallows twittering in the leaden troughs of the gutter before her; the call of a chocolate vender or the cry of a gamin floated up to her from the strect below, or the latest song of the cafe chantant was whistled by the blue-bloused workman on the scaffold- ing hard by. The breath of Paris, of youth, of blended work and play, of ambition, of joyous freedom again filled her and mingled ith the scent of the ionette that ased to stand on the old window ledge. “I am glad you like it. I-have only just put it up.” that had regained a little of its naturalness —a calm, even Ai fi- spectiat listen Yet it oakie Samad spect ners. Yet 801 we nerves counpincency: and its utter to to know more about the sketch was Pe “Do you mean you have just bought it?” asked Helen, “It's not English.’ “No!” said Sir James, tified with his compantion’s interest. “I bought it in Paris just after the Commune.” “From the artist?” continued Helen in a slightly constrained voice. “No,” said Sir James, “although I knew the poor chap well enough. You can easily see that he was once a painter of great promise. I rather think it was stolen from him while he was in hospitat by those in- cendiary wretches. I recognized it, how- ever, and bought for a few francs from them what I would have paid him a thous- and for.” “In hospital?” repeated Helen dazedly. “Yes,” said Sir James. “The fact is it "was the ending of the usual Bohemian artist's Hfe. Though in this case the man was a real artist, and I believe, by the way, was a countryman of yours.” “In horpital!” again repeated Helen,“‘then he was pocr? “Reckless, I should rather say; he threw himself into the fighting before Paris and was badly wounded. But it was all the re- sult of the usual love affair; the girl, they say, ran off with the usual richer man. At all events it ruined him for painting; he never did anything worth having after- ward.” “And now?” said Helen, in the same un- moved voice. Sir James shrugged his shoulders. “He disappeared. bably he'll turn up some day on the London pavement, with chalks! That sketch, by the way, was one that had always attracted me in his studio, though he never would part from it. i rather fancy, don’t you know, that the sirl had something to do_with it. It’s a wonderfully realistic sketch, don’t you see: and I shouldn’t wonder if it was the girl herself who lived behind one of those queer little windows in the roof there.” “She did live there!” said Helen in a low voice. *Sir James uttered a vague laugh. Helen looked around her. The du had quietly and unostentatiously into the library, and in full view, though out of hearing, was examining, with her glass to her eye, some books upon the shelves. “I mean,” said Helen, in a perfectly clear vcice, “that the young girl did not run away from the painter, and that he had reither the right nor the cause to believe her faithless or attribute his misfortunes to her!" She hesitated, not from any sens of her indiscretion, but to recover from a momentary doubt if the girl were really her own seif—but only for a moment. “Then you knew the painter—as I did, id in astonishment. si ‘ot as you did,” responded Helen. She drew nearer the picture, and pointing a slim finger to the canvas, said: “Do you see that small window with the mignonette?” “Perfectly.” “That was my room. His was opposite. He told me so when I first saw the sketch. I am the girl you speak of—for he knew no other—and I believe him to have been a truthful, honorable man.” “But what were you doing there? Surely you are joking!” said Sir James, with a forced smile. - “I was a poor pupil at the Conservatoire, and lived where I could afford to live.” “Alone?” “Alone. “And the man was—” “Major Ostrander was my friend. I even think I have a better right to call him that than you had Sir James coughed slightly and grasped the lapels of his coat. “Of course—I dare say; I had no idea of this—don’t you know —when I spoke.” He looked around as if for some chance of escape. “Ah! suppo: we ask the duchess to look at the sketch— don’t think she’s seen it.” He began to move in the direction of the library. “She had better wait,” said Helen quietly. “For what?” ‘Until—” hesitated Helen, smilingly. ‘Until? I am afraid I don’t understand,” said Sir James stiffly, coloring with a slight suspicion. “Until you have anologized.” “Of course,” said Sir James, with a half hysteric laugh, “I do. You understand I orly repeated a story that was told me and had no idea of connecting you with it. I beg your pardon, I’m sure. I er-er—in fact,” he added suddenly, the embarrassed smile fading from his face as he looked at her fixedly, “I remember now, it must have been the conclergg of the house—or the opposite one—who Tora me. He said it was a Russian who carried off—that young girl. Of course it was some made-up stor: “I left Paris with the duchess,’ Helen quietly, “before the war.” “Of course. And she knows all about your friendship with this man?” “I don’t think she does. I haven't told her. Why should I?” returned Helen, rais- ing her clear eyes to his. “Really, I don’t know stammered Sir James. “But here she is. Of course tf you prefer it I won't say anything of this to her.” Helen gave him a first glance of genuine emotion; it happened, however, to be scorn. “How odd,” she said, as the duchess leis- urely approached them, her glass still in her eye. “Sir James quite unconsciously has just been showing me a sketch of my dear old mansarde in Paris. Look! That little window was my room. And only think of it. Sir James bought it of an old friend of mine, who painted it from the opposite attic, where he lived. And quite as unconsciously, too.” “How very singular, “Indeed, quite romantic. “Ver! said Sir James. “Very,” said Helen. The tone of their voices was so different that the duchess looked from the one to the other. “But that isn’t all,” said Helen, with smile. “Sir James actually fan- cied— “Will you excuse me for a moment?” said Sir James, interrupting and turning hastily to the duchess with a forced smile and a somewhat heightened color. “I had forgotten that I promised Lady Harriet to drive you over to Deep Hill after luncheon to mest that South American, who has tak- en such a fancy to your place, and I must to the stables.” 2G Sir James disappeared the duchess turned to Helen. a “T_ see what has happened, dear. Don’t mind me, for I frankly confess that I shall now eat my luncheon less guiltily than I feared. But tell me, how did you refuse by wi didn’t refuse him,” sald Helen. “I only prevented his asking me.” “How?” Then Helen told her all—everything ex- cept her first meeting with Ostrander at the restaurant. A true woman respects the pride of those she loves more_ even than her own, and while Helen felt that although that incident might somewhat condone her subsequent romantic passion in the duchess’ eyes, she could not tell ft. The duchess listened in_ silence. “Then you two incompetents have never seen each other since?” she asked. “No.” “But you hove to?” “I cannot speak for him,” said Helen. “And you have never written to» him, and don’t know whether he is alive or dead?” “No.” “Then I have been nursing in my bosom for three years at one and the same time a brave, independent, matter-of-fact young person and the most idiotic, sentimental passion that ever figured in a romantic opera or a country ballad.” Helen did not reply. “Well, my dear,” said the duchess, after a pause, “I see that you are condemned to pass your days with me in some cheap hotel on the continent.” Helen looked up wonderingly. “Yes,” she continued, “I suppose I must now make up my mind to sell my place to this gilded South Ameri- can who has taken a fancy to it. But I am not going to spoil my day by seeing him now. No, we will excuse ourselves from going to Deep Hill today and we will go back home quietly after luncheon. It will be a mercy to Sir James.” “But,” said Helen earnestly, “I can go back to my old life and earn my own living.” “Not if I_can help it,” said the duchess, grimly. “Your independence> has made you a charming companion to me, I admit, but I shall see that it does not again spoil your chances of marrying. Here comes Sir James. Really, my dear, I don’t know which of you looks the more relieved.” On their way back through the park Helen again urged the duchess to give up the idea of selling Hamley Court and to consent to her taking up her old freedom and independence again. “I shall never, never forget your loving kindness and pro- tection,” continued the young girl, tender- ly, “You will let me come to you always when you want me; but you will let me al- 80 shape my life anew, and work for my ‘living.”, The duchess turned her grave, half-humorgus face toward her. “That means you have determined to seek him. Well! Perhaps if you give up your ot! absurd idea of independence I may “nat he " said said the duchess. you. And now I really believe, dear, thal there is that dreadful South American,” with the stra: ger. who, like the duchess, she was inclined to regard as a portent of fate and a sacrifice. She knew her friend’s straitened circumstances, that might make such a sacrifice necessary to insure a com- petency for her old age, and as Helen fear- ed, a provision for herself; she knew the strange tenderness of this masculine wo- man, whick had survived a husband's in- fidelities and a son's forgetfulness, to lin- ger with her, and her heart sank at the Prospect of separation, even While her pride demanded that she should return to her old life again. Then she wondered if the duchess was right; did she still cher- ish the hope cf meeting Ostrander again? The tears she had kept back all that day asserted themselves as she flung open the Ubrary door and ran across the garden into the myrtle walk. “In hospital!” The words had bee. ring- ing in her ars through Sir James’ compla- cent speech, through the oddly constrained luncheon, through the half-tender, half- masculine reasoning of her companion. He had loved her—he had suffered and perhaps thought her false! Suddenly she stopped. At the further end of the walk the omi- uous stranger whom she wished to avoid was standing looking toward the house. How provoking! She glanced again: he was leaning rgainst a tree, aad was obvi- ously as preoccupied as she was herself. He was actually sketching the ivy-covered gable of the library. What presumption! And he was sketching with his left hand. A sudden thrill of superstition came over her. She moved eagerly forward for @ bet- oo deeded him. No! he had two arms! a is quick eye had already ht sight of her, and before she could retreat she could see that he had thrown away his sketch book and was hastening eagerly to- ward her. Amazed and confounded, she would have flown, but her liabs suddenly refused their office, and as Ke « last came near her with the cry ef “Helen!” upon als lips, she ‘felt herself Stagecring, and was caught in his arme. “Thank God!” hy let you come to me She disengaged h ly from him, and aid. “Then she has If slowly and daz stood looking at him wi 4 = Wondering eyes, He was bronzed and worn the second arm, but still it was and with the love which she now knew his looking from his ho 5 ‘She ge et me come?” s: es Ss!" He stopped sudde blank face, while his peed ite. “Helen! For ¢ ods You have not accepted him “I have accepted no one, ed, with a faint color rising “I do not understand you. — . of relief came over him. e said, amazediy, “has not the duc told you? Has she not told you on despair at your sudden disappearance with shed and nothing left to gazing at grew ashy sake tell me! she stam: to her cheeks, “But,” my old trade of the fighter. I Joined a secret expedition to help the Chil- han, Tevolutionists? How I, who migat have starved as a painter, ion as a partisan general, and _ Warded with an envoyship in Europe? How I came to Paris to seek you? How I found that even the picture, your pleture, Helen, had been sold? How, in tracing it Pere, I met the duchess at Deep Hill, and, learning you were with her, in a moment of impulse, told her my whole story? How she told me that, though she was your best friend, you had never spoken of me, and how she begged me not to spoil your chances of a good match by revealing my- self, and so awakening a past which she believed you had forgotten? How she im- plored me at least to let her make a fait test of your affections and your memory, and until then to keep away from you and her, ane to spare you, Helen, and for your sake I co! nied? Surely, she has told you this now.” Not a word,” said Helen, blankly. “Then you mean to say that if I had not haunted the park today in the hope of see- ing you, believing that as you would not recognize me with this aruticial arm, [I should not break m Promise to her, you would not have known I was even living “No! Yes! Sta A smile broke over her pale face and left it rosy. “I see it all now. Oh, Philip. don’t you understand, she wanted only to try us? There v: broken only gained distinc- s of a frightened nvaded. ! Wait! Come with me! The next moment she had seized Philip's left hand, and, dregging him with her, was flying down the walk toward the house. But as they neared the garden door, it suddenly opened on the duchess, with her glasses to her cyes, smiling. The General Don Felipe Ostrander did not bry Hamley Court, but he and his wife were alw: welcome guests there. And Sir Jam became an English gentle- man, gallantly presented Philip's wife with Philip's first picture. a ae ee The Nicest Doll Gladys Hyatt in American Agri T've got the de And her name is Sally used to be a cloth ‘ore she got to be a as Her dress is only gin; And she hasn't a She ain't a truly i ty, But I tell her not to care. For I've got great big Of dollies. large And Sally Polly Cloths © nicest doll of a English From the Chicago Record. The British government sells all its pub- lications. It gives nothing away. If you want a copy of a bill that has been intro- duced into the house of commons, or a rcport that has been presented to the house of lords, or any public matter in the Lon- den county council or the board of alder- men of the city, you have to buy it from the official printers, and you have to pay pestage if it is sent through the mails. In our country nearly all official docu- ments of this kind are given away, and “re sent free through the mails under a frank. The British plan seems to be the mcre sensible. It saves millions of dollars every year that are wasted in the United States to furnish public documents to peo- ple who do not care anything for them, and who throw them into the waste-pap2r basket as soon as they are receiv The charge for official publications is only sufficient to pay the cost and a small margin for wastage. Thus the government printing office is self-supporting and the Fostal service pays a profit of $10,000,000 cr $12,000,000 annually into the treasury, On the contrary, on our side of the Atlantic, at costs $5,000,000 or more to pay for printing for which no one is the wiser, and our Post Office Department declares an Irish dividend of $9,000,000 or $10,000,000 every year, much of which is due to the trans- Portation of “pub. docs.” — = 000 He Shook. From the Philadelphia American, Farmer Weed—“That gosh derned farm hand has ruined our trade fer the sum- mer!” Mrs. F. Weed—“Land sakes! ram?” F, Weed—“I told the critter tew be care- ful “bout having his malaria in presence of city folks; but he went in town tew drive the new boarder out, an’ when the city chap, polite like, said ‘Shake,’ gol swizzle How, Hi- “It is very pleasant to meet you, Dawkins.” “It certainly is to me, Mr. Wicks.” o and I an-