Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 44, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 25 April 1885 — Page 6

THE MAIL

fv A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE,

SILENCE VS. SCANDAL.

There's WlsSom in the tongue that holds A due degree to caution, That coolly weighs each sentence, ere

It «ets itself In motion For oft there's something in a speech Twere better never spoken, There's wisdom in the silence, that's

For scandal seldom broken.

A thousand times the grief and pain By words have been engendered, As silence in thelr stead to man

Could peace and pleasure rendered. And yet there's something more than this,. Still something more endearing: "Who speaks by well matured thought,

Words sparkling bright and cheering, New luster and new treasures add To learning's htg ng Brings new ideas Into the world,

And gilds his name with knowledge,

But Idle brains have busy tongues, With cunning, sense, nor reason To »hem conviction Is a fault,

And silence naught but treason. But thinking men will all agree There's muoh twere best unspoken There's wisdom in the silence thats

For scandal seldom broken. —[M. J. Wrisby.

"COME ASHORE"

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. I Vj.iv. CHAPTER].

Due

FIRST GLIMPSE OT THE CARAVAN.

Wake up, or Til break every bone In your skin." The afternoon was still very warm, but a gray mist, drifting from the Irish channel, sailing eastward over the low-lying Island

Anglesoa, Was beginning to scatter a thin, etrating drisale on the driver of the cara-

To right and left of the highway stretched bleak and baro prospect of marshland and oorland, closed to the west by asky of evercpening redness, and relieved here and there black clumps of stunted woodland. Here there pooped a solitary farmhouse, with flying fields of swampy greenness, where and spectral cattle wore lugubriously ng and ever and anon came a glimpse

lonely lake or tarn, fringed all around

wA thick*stages, and dotted with waterlilies

Tho

road was as desolate as tho pros

pect, with not a living soul upon it, far as the eyo could see. To all this, however, the driver of the caravan paid little attention, awing to the simple fact that he was fast asleep.

Ho was roused by a sudden jolting and Swaying of the clumsy vehicle, combined with 'x gound of splashing watert and, opening his ayes sleepily, ho perceived that the gray mar* bad turned aside from the centre of the road, knd, having placidly entered a stagnant pond pn tho road-sido, was floundering and struggling in tho mud thereof, with the caravan rocking behind her. At the same moment a hoad raa thrust, round the back part of the vehicle, ind an angry voice exclaimed: "Tim, you scoundrel, whore the dovil are rou driving to! Wake up or I'll brook every xrae in your skin."

Thus addressed, Tim woke himself with an iffort, and, looking round with an insinuating anile, roplied: 5 "Begorra, Master Charles, I thought it wai jm earthquake entirely— Come out of that lowl Is it wanting todrownd yourself you vef G-r-r-rl Sh! Aisy now, aisy!"

Tho latter portion of the above sentence jras addressed to tho mare, which was at last tarsuadod to wade out of the cool mud and ^turn to the dusty track, where she stood (ulvoring and panting. No sooner was the toturn to terra firma accomplished than a Ight, agile figure descended the steps at the tack of the caravan, and ran round to the rout An excited colloquy, angry on the ®e side and apologetic on the other, ensued, knd did not cease even when the driver,* with [flick of his whip, put the caravan again in notion, while the other strode alongside on

fit was just such a caravan as may be seen fay summer day forming part of the camp jnian English common, with the swart face a gypsy woman looking out at the door, od half-a-dojBMi ragged imps and elves ro^ ca the grass beneath as may be ob

T«d,

smothered in wickerwork of all de ipttons, or glittering pots or pans, movin| torn door to door in some sleepy country bwn, guided by a gloomy gentleman in •elvetwn coat and a hareakin cap, and at snded by a brawny hussy, also anothered In ickerwork or pots and pans as, furtherlore, may be descried forming part of the recession of a traveling circus, and drawn a piebald horse which, -whenever a good pitch" is found, will complete its day's labor performances in the ring. A caravan of good old English kind with small win jws, ornamented by white muslin curtains, ith a chimney atop for the smoke to come trough from the fire inside, with a door be* ad, ornamented with a knocker, and only a door-plate to make it quite com-eto-in short, a house on wheels.

The driver, though rough enough, and red ith the sun and wind, bad nothing In eomon with the ordinary drivers of such vehicles id, in point of fact/ho was neither a gypsy a traveling tinker, nor a circus performer. •KXich vis wa* summer time, be wore a large «iaecoa«, descending almost to his beds, id on his be wideawake hat—underneelli tiich his lr. beardless, and somewhat ~~uti facnsbciae with indolent good humor, iiicttnpanfoa, Master Cfcartes, as be was fled, bcretttill

less

-sed

resemblance to the Bo-

of Englfeh lanes and woodlands, a tfi#Cbudsoma, faif^iaired ^*Tof~t£o or time and twmty.in the

attire of an ordinary wunmsr toarist 4 evwj toovrnMSSl be made, every word «ok«, implio 1 the ««ientlemaa Presently, aft a signal tram his master icfc ws*h Tim drew rsta again. Sy ttds as tho sun iw wttim ®"T the west, and the thin drisris was .beocsnmore persistant

t'How far did they say it was to Pencroeer "Ten miles, sor." "Tho iTinra la tired out. I think. We shall have to camp by the roadside." "All right, Master Charles. There'tfa handy shelter beyant there where you see the treeB," Tim added, pointing up the road with his whip. The young man looked in that direction, and saw, about a quarter of a mile away, that the highway entered a dark clump of woodland. He nodded assent and walked rapidly forward, while tie caravan followed slowly in his rear.

Reaching the point where the wood began entering the shadow of the trees, he soon

found

a spot well fitted for his purpose. To the left the road widened out into a grassy of common, adorned with one or two hnah»g of stunted brown, and stretched out a dusty arm to touch a large white-gate, which opened on a gloomy, grass-grown avenue winding right through the heart of the wood. The caravan, coming slowly up, was soon in a snug position not for from the gate, the horse was taken out and suffered to graze, while Tim, searching about, found some dry sticks and began to light a fire. Diving into the caravan the young man reemerged with a camp-stool, on which he sat down, lighted a meerschaum pipe and began to smoke. They could hear the rain faintly pattering in boughs above them, but the spot theyhad chosen was quite sheltered and dry.

The fire soon blazed up. Entering the caravan in his turn, Tim brought out a tin kettle full of water, and placed it on the fire, preparatory to making tea. He was thus engaged when the sound of a horse's hoofs wa* heard along the highway, and presently the figure of a horseman appeared, approaching at a rapid trot. As it came near to the group on the wayside, the horse shied violently, springing from one side of the road to the other, so that its rider, a dark, middleaged man, in an old-fashioned cloak, was almost thrown from the saddle. Uttering a fierce oath, he recovered himself, and reining in the frightened animal, looked angrily around then, seeing the cause of the mis* chance, he forced his horse, with no small difficulty, to approach the figures by the fire. "Who are you?" he demanded, in harsh, peremptory tones. "What are you doing here?"

The young man, pipe In mouth, looked up at him with a smile, but made no reply. "What are you? Vagrants! Do you know this place is private?"

And he pointed with his riding-whip to a printed "Notice I" fixed close to the gate upon the stem of a large fir tree.

I beg your pardon," said the young man, with the utmost tang froid "we are, I imagine, on the queen's highway, and there, with your permission, we purposeto remain for the night."

Struck by the superior manner Of the speaker, the newcomer looked at him in some surprise, but with no abatement of his haughty manner. He then glanced at Tim, who was busy with the kettle, from Tim to the gray mare, and from the gray mare to the house on wheels. The scowl on his dark face deepened, and he turned his fierce eyes again on the young man. "Let me warn you that these grounds are private. I suffer no wandering vagabonds to pass that gate." "May I ask your name?" said the young man, in the same cool tone and with the same quiet smile. "What is my name to you?" "Well, not much, only Ishould like to know the title of so very amiable a person."

The other condescended to no reply, but walked his horse toward the gate. "Here, fellow 1" he cried% addi^ssing Tim. "Open this gate for me!"

VDou'fc stir I" said his master. "Let our amiablo friend open the gate for himself." With an angry exclamation the rider leaped from his saddle, and, still holding the horse's reins, threw the gate wide open. Then,.still loading his horso, ho strode over toward the young ntan, who, looking up, saw that he was nearly six feet high, and very powerfully built. "My name is Monk, of Monkshurst," he said. "I've a good mind to teach you to remember it."

My name is Monk, of MonktfiursV "Dont be afraid," was the reply. "Monk, of Monkshurst I shall be certain not to forget it, Mr. Monk, of Monkshurst 1 Tim, is the water boiling

For a moment Mr. Monk, as he called himself, seemed ready to draw his riding whip across the young man's face, but, conquering himself, he surveyed him from head to foot with savage anger. Nothing daunted, the young man returned his stare with something very like supreme contempt. At last, muttering beneath his breath, Mr. Monk turned away, and, leading his horse into the avenue, dosed the gate and remounted but even then he did not immediately depart, but remained for somo minutes, seated in the saddle, scowling over at the encampment.

Thus occupied, his face and figure set in the gloomy framework of the trees, he looked even more forbidding than before. His face, though naturally handsome, was dark with tempestuous passions, his eyes deep-set and fierce, his clean-shaven jaw square and determined. For the rest, his black hair, which was thickly mixed with iron gray, fell almost to his shoulders, and his upper lip was covered with an iron gray mustache.

At last, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, Mr. Monk turned his horse round with a fierce jerk of the rein, and rode rapidly away In the shadow of the wood.

CHAPTER II.

URATES FROX YOtTTO OS2fTUnUB*8 JOtTRIAL "Before setting forth on this memorable pilgrimage to nowhere, I promised a certain friend of mine, in literary Bohemia, tokMp notes of my adventures, with a view to totore publication, illustrated by my owa brilliant sketches. I fear ths promise was a rash one—firstly, became I am coastltatkB•Byla*yandavemtolltanaryexertion and, •aooodlr. because I have, as yet, met with no ad rsutures worth writing about. Ncfttfcaft I have altogether lost my first enthusiasm tor the IASSE. Tfcsre «MU be aarretty la ths litis, at any rate, *Graisss in a Caravan,* by Chariss Brinkby, wttfc fflosttatioas by the anther ^pbotecrapUc tatfapfsos, tbe On-

van, with Tim as large as life, smirking selfconsciously in delight at having his pictur* fa. Van My friend has promised to find me a publisher, if I will only persevere. Well, we see. If the book does not progress ft will be entirely my own fault for I have any amount of time on my hands. Paint as hard as I may all day, I have always the long evenings, when I must either write, read or do nothing. "So I am beginning this evening, exactly a fortnight after my first start from Chester. I purchased the caravan there from a moroee individual, with one eye, who had it built with a view to the exhibition of a "Wild Man of Patagonia but said Wild Man having tflVpn ifc into his head to return to County Cork, where he was born, and the moroee individual having no definite idea of a novelty to fa»Tra his place, the caravan came into the market. Having secured this traveling pain™, duly furnished with window-blinds, apiece of carpet, a chair-bedstead, a table, a stove, cooking utensils, not to speak of my own artistic paraphernalia, I sent over to Mulrany, County Mayo, for my old servant, Tim-na-Chalnig, or Tin o' the Ferry—otherwise Tim Linney and with his assistance, when he arrived, I purchased a strong mare at Chester Fair. All these preliminaries being settled, we started one fine morning soon after daybreak, duly bound for explorations along the macadamized highways and byways of North Wales. "I «Tn pleased to say that Tim, after he had recovered the first shock of seeing a peripatetic dwelling house, took to the idea wonderfully. 'Sure it's just like the ould cabin at home,' he averred, 'barrin' the /wheels, and the windies, and the chimley, and the baste to prill jt ilong and I think the resemblance would have been complete in his eyes if there hnrf only been two or three pigs to trot merrily behind the back door. As for myself, I took to the nomad life as naturally as if I had never in my life been in a civilized habitation. To be able to go where one pleased, to dawdle as one pleases, to stop and sleep where one pleased, was certainly a new sensation. My friends, observing my sluggish ways, had often compared me to that interesting creature, the snail now the resemblance was complete, for I was a snail indeed, with my house comfortably fixed upon my shoulders, crawling tranquilly along. "Of course, the caravan has its inconveniences. Inside, to quote the elegant simile of our progenitors, there is scarcely room enough to swing a cat in and when my bed is made, and Tim's hammock is swung just inside the door, the place forms the tiniest of sleeping chambers. Then our cooking arrangements are primitive, and, as Tim has no idea whatever in the culinary art, beyond being able to boil potatoes in their skins and make very doubtful 'stirabout,'there is a certain want of variety in our repasts. "Besides the inconveniences which I have mentioned, but which were, perhaps, hardly worth chronicling, the caravan has social drawbacks, more particularly embarrassing to a modest man like myself. It is confusing, for example, on entering a town, or goodsized village, to be surrounded by the entire juvenile population, who cheer us vociferously, under the impression that we constitute a 'show,' and afterward, on ascertaining their mistake, pursue us with opprobrious jeers and it is distressing to remark that our mode of life, instead of

inviting

confidence, causes us

to be regarded with suspicion by the vicar of the parish and the local policemen. We are exposed, moreover, to ebullitions of bucolic humor, which have taken the ftsrm of horseplay on more than one occasion. Tim has

on one*occasion- he would have been overpowered by numbers if I had not gone" to his assistance. Generally speaking, nothing will remove from the rural population an idea that the cjiravan forms an exhibition of some sort. When I airily alight and stroll through a village, sketchbook in hand, I have invariably at my heels a long attendant train of all ages, obviously under the impression that lam looking for a suitable 'pitch,'and am going to 'porform.' "To avoid these and similar inconveniences, wo generally halt for the night in some secluded spot—some roadside nook or outlying common. But there is a fatal attraction in the caravan it seems to draw spectators, as it were, out of the very bowels of tho earth. No matter how desolate tho place we have chosen, we have scarcely made ourselves comfortable when an audience gathers, and stragglers drop in, amazed and open-mouthed. I found it irksome at first to paint in the open air, with a gazing crowd at my back making audible comments on my work as it progressed but I soon got used to it, and, having discovered certain good 'subjects' here nnrl there among my visitors, I take the publicity now as a matter of course. Even when busy inside I am never astonished to see strange noses flattened against the windows —strange faces peeping in at the door. The tinman temperament accustoms itself to anything. "I begin this record in the Island of Anglesoa, where we have arrived after our fortnight's wanderings in the more mountainous districts of the mainland. Anglesea, I am informed, is chiefly famous for its pigs and its wild ducks. So far as I have yet explored it I find it flat and desolate enough but I have been educated in Irish landscapes, and dont object to flatness when combined with desolation. I like these dreary meadows, these bleak stretches of melancholy moorland, these wild lakes and lagoons. "At the present moment I am encamped in a spot whore, in all probability, I shall remain for days. I came upon it quite by accident about midday yesterday, when on my way to the market town of Pencroea or, rather, when I imagined that I was going thither, while I had, in reality, after hesitating at three cross-roads, taken the road which led in exactly the opposite direction. The way was desolate and dreary beyond measure—stretches of morass and moorland on every side, occasionally rising into heathery knolls or hillocks, or strewed with huge pieces of stones like the mows of Cornwall. Presently the open moorland ended, and we entered a region of sandy hillocks, sparsely ornamented here and titan with long, harsh grass. If one' could imagine the waves of the ocean, at some moment of wild agitation, suddenly froeen to stillness, and returning intact these tempestuocn forms, it would give some idea of the bullocks I am describing. Theyroeeon every side of the road, completely shutting out the view, and their pale, livid yfflowness, scarcely relieved with a glimpse greenness, was wearisome and lonely in the extreme. As we advanced among them, the toed we were pursuing grew wane and worse, till It became so choked and covered with drifted sand as to be ecarcely recognisable, and I need hardly say that it was hard work for one horse to poll the caravan along. "We had proceeded in this manner for some miles, and I was beginning to realise the fact that we were oat of oar reckoning, when, suddenly emerging from between two sandhills, I saw a wide stretch of green meadow land, and beyostd it a gkrified piece of water. The sun was shinfng brightly, the water sparkled tflcs a mirror, calm as glass, and wHhoot breath. As we appeared a large heron rose from the spot en the water side where be had hssn standing mHasastc*s,wittK*«esDas«,

Above his dim bhse dtads'-*

and sailed leisurely away. Around the lake, which was about a mile in circumference, the road ran winding, till it reached the farther side, where more sandhills began but between these sandhills I caught a sparkling glimpse of more water, and, guided to my conclusion by the red sail of a fishing smack just glimmering on the horizon line, I knew that farther water was—the sea. "The spot had all the attraction of complete desolation, combined with the charm which always, to my mind, pertains to lakes and lagoons. Eager as a boy or a loosened retriever, Iran across the meadow and found the grass long j»nd green and sown with innumerable crowsfoot flowers underneath the green was sand again, but here it glimmered like gold dust As I reached the sedges on the lake side a teal rose, in full summer plumage, wheeled swiftly round the lake, thAn, returning, splashed down boldly and swam within a stone's throw of the shore, when, peering through the rushes, I caught

P. M.—Dinner.

glimpse of his mate paddling anxiously along with eight little fluift of down behind her. Then, just outside the sedges, I saw the golden shield of water broken by the circles of rising trout. It was too much. I hastened back tc the caravan and informed Tun that I had no intention

going any farther—that day,

at least. "So here we have been since yesterday, and up to this, have not set eyes upon a single soul Such peace and quietness is a foretaste of Paradise. As this is the most satisfactory day

I have yet spent in my pilgrimage, although it bears, at the same time, a family likeness to the other days of the past fortnight, I purpose setting down, verbatim, and chronologically, the manner in which I occupied myself from dawn to sunset. "6 A. M.—Wake,and see that Tim has already disappeared, and folded up his hammock. Observe the morning sun looking in with a fresh, cheery countenance at the window. Turn over again with a yawn, and go to sleep for another five minutes. *"7:15 A. H.—Wake again, and discover, by looking at my watch, that,-instead of five minutes, I have slept an hour and a quarter. Spring up at once, and slip on shirt and trousers then pass out, barefooted, into the open air. No sign of Tim, but afire is lighted close to the caravan, which shadows it from the rays of the morning sun. Stroll down to the lake, and throwing off what garments I wear, prepare for a bath. Cannot get out for a swim on account of the reeds. The bath over, return and finish my toilet in the caravan. "8 A. M.—Tim has reappeared. He has been right down to the seashore, a walk of about two miles and a half. He informs me, to my disgust, that there is some sort of a human settlement there, and a lifeboat station. He has brought back in his baglet, as specimens of the local products, a dozen new-laid eggs, some milk, and a loaf of bread. The last, I observe, is in a fossil state. I ask who sold it "'"1 He answers, William Jones. "8:30 A. M.—We breakfast splendidly. Even the fossil loaf yields sustenace, after it is cut up and dissolved in hot tea. Between whiles Tim informs me that the settlement down yonder is, in his opinion, a poor sort of a place. There are several whitewashed cottages and a large, roofless house, for all the world like a church. Devil the cow or pig did he see at all, barrin' a few hens. Any boats, I ask. Yes, one, with the bottom knocked out, belonging to William Jon°s. "Tim has got this name so pat that my curiosity begins to be aroused. 'Who the deuce is William Jones?* 'Sure, thin,' says Tim, Tie's the man that lives down beyant, by the sea.' I demand, somewhat irritably, if the place contains only one inhabitant? Devil another did Tim see, he explains—-barrin' William Jones. "9:30 A.M.—Start painting in the open air, under the shade of a large white cotton um* brella. Paint on till 1 P. Jfcw "1 p. 14.—Take a long walk- among the sandhills, avoiding the settlement beyond the lake. Don't want to meet any of the aboriginals, more particularly William Jones. Walking here is like running up and down Altantic billows, assuming said billows to be solid now I am lost- in the trough of tho sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing.. I soon lose myself, every hillock being exactly like another. Suddenly a hare starts from under my feet and goes leisurely away. I remember an old amusement of mine in the west of Ireland, and I track Puss by her footprints— now clearly and beautifully printed in the soft sand of the hollows, now more faintly marked on the harder sides of the ridges. The sun blazes down, the refraction of the heat from the sand is overpowering, the air is quivering, sparkling and pulsating, as if full of innumerable sand crystals. A horrible croak from overhead startles me, and looking up I see an enormous raven wheeling along in circles and searching the ground for mice or other prey "Looking at my watch. I find that I have been toiling in this sandy wilderness for quite two hours. Time to get back and dine. Climb the nearest hillock, and look round to discover where I am. Can see nothing but the sandy billows on every side, and am entirely at a loss which way to go. At last, after half an hour's blind wandering, stumble, by accident, on tho road by the lake side, and see tho caravan in the distance. "4

Boiled potatoes, boiled

eggs, fried bacon. Tim's cooking is primitive, but I could devour anything—even William Jones' fossil bread. I asked if any human being has visited the camp. 'Sorra one,' Tim says, looking rather disappointed. He has got to feel himself a public character, and misses the homage of the vulgar. "Paint again till 6 p. x. "A beautiful sunset. The sandhills grow rosy in the light, tho lake deepens from crimson to purple, the moon comes out like a silver sickle over the sandy sea. A thought seizes me as the shadows increase. Now is the time to entice the pink trout from their depths in the lake. I get out my fishing rod and line, mwi, stretching two or three flies which seem suitable, prepare for action. My rod is only a snail, single-handed one, and it is difficult to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish are rising thickly out in the tranquil pools, and, determined not to be beaten, I wade in to the knees. Half a dozen trout, each about the sise of a small herring, reward my enterprise. When I have captured them, the moon is high up above the sand hills, and it is quite dark. "Such is the chronicle of the past day. By the light of my lamp inside the caravan I have written itdown. It has been all very tranquil and uneventful, but very delightful, and a day to be marked with a white "tone, in one respect—that from dawn to sunset I have not set eyas an a human being except my servant. "Stop, though! I am wrong. Just as I wii returning from my piscatorial excursion to the lake, I saw, passing along the road In the direction of the sea, a certain solitary horseman, who accosted me not too civilly on the road side the night before last. He aoowled at me in passing, and, of coum, recognised me by the aid of the caravan. Hto name is Monk, of Mcnkshorst, and be seems to be pretty well monarch of all he surveys. I Slave an ^mpresakn that Mr. Monk, of Moakstrarst, and myself are desttnad to bs beCfesr, or worse, acquainted."

CHAPTTSR 111

'num KEB warn imiiunfc' "Borstal I have had an ad ialij at

last ""f* yet, after all, what am I talking about? It is no adventure at all, but only a common place incident. This is bow it happened: "I wa3 seated this morning before my easel, out in the open air, painting busily, when I thought I heard a movement behind ma "I should have premised, by the way, that Tim had gone off on another excursion into the Jones territory, on the quest for more eggs and milk. "I glanced over my shoulder and saw, peering round the corner of my white sunshade, a pair of large, eager eyes—fixed, not upon me, but upon the canvas I was painting. "Not in the least surprised, I thought to myself, 'At last! The caravan has exercised its spell upon the district, and the usual audience is beginning to gather.' So I went tranquilly on with my work, and paid no more attention. "Presently, however, fatigued with my work, I indulged in a great yawn, and rose to strrtch myself. I then perceived that my audience was more select than numerous, consisting of only one individual—a young person in a Welsh chimney-pot hat. Closer observation showed me that said hat was set on ahead of.closely cropped, curly black hair, beneath which there shone a brown, boyish face, freckled with sun and wind, a pair of bright black eyes, and a

laughing

mouth with

two rows of the whitest of teeth. But the face, though boyish, did not belong to a boy. The young person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a colored woolen shawl or scarf thrown over the shoulders, and wore thick woolen stockings and rough shoes, the latter many sizes too large. The gown was too short for the wearer, who had evidently outgrown it it reached only just below the knee, and, when the young person moved, one caught a glimpse of something very much resembling a dilapidated garter. "The young person's smile was so bright and good-humored that 1 found myself answering it with a friendly nod. 'How are youf I said, gallantly. 'I hope re it we

How are you fn I said, gallantly. "She nodded in reply, and, stooping down, plucked a long blade of grass, which she placed in her mouth and bogan to nibble— bashfully, I thought. ,, 'May I ask where you come from?' I said. 'I mean, where do you live?* "Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across tho lake in the direction of the sea. I could not help noticing then, as an artist, that the sleeve of her gown was loose and torn, and that her arm was round and well formed, and her hand, though rough and sun-burned, quite genteelly small. 'If it is not inquisitive, may I ask your name?' .. 'Matt,' was the reply. 'Is that all? What is you other name!1 'I've got no other name. Fm Matt, I am.' 'Indeed! Do your parents live here?' 'Got no parents,' was the reply. "'Your relations, then. You^belong to some one, I suppose?* "She gave me another tod. 'Yes,' she answered, nibbling rapidly. 'I belong to William Jones.' "'Oh, to Aim,' I said, feeling as familiar with the name as if I bad known it all my life. 'But he's not your father?1 ''She shook her head emphatically. 'But of course he's a relation? "Another shake of the head. 'But you belong to himf I said, considerably puzzled. 'Where were you born 'I wasn't born at all,' answered Matt. 'I come ashore.' "This was what the immortal Dick Swiveller would have called a 'staggerer.' I looked at the girl again, inspecting her curiously from top to toe. Without taking her eyes from mine, die stood on one leg bashfully, and fidgeted with the other foot. She was certainly not bad-looking, though evidently a very rough diamond. Even the extraordinary headgear became her well. 'I know what you was doing there,' she cried suddenly, pointing to my easel. 'You was painting!' "The discovery not being a brilliant one, I took no trouble to confirm it but Matt thereupon walked over to the canvas and, stooping down, examined it with undisguised curiosity. Presently she glanced again at me. 'I know what this is,' she cried, pointing. 'It's water. And that's the sky. And that's trees. And these here'—for a moment she aacmwl in doubt, but added, hastily—"pigs.' "Now, as the subject represented a flock of sheep huddling together close to a pond on a rainy common, this suggestion was not overcomplimentary to my artistic skill. I was on the point of correcting my astute critic when she after a moment's farther inspection:

TTo they're sheep. Look ye now, I know They're sheep.' 'Pray dont touch the paint,' I suggested, approaching her in some alarm. 'It is wet, and comes off.' "She drew back cautiously and then, ass preliminary to further conversation, sat down on the grass, giving me further occasion to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a free-and-easineai, not to say boldness, about her manner, tempered though it was with gusts of bashfulnsss which began to amuse me. "'Can you paint facesf she asked, dubiously. "I replied that I could even aspire to that accomplishment, by which I understood her to mean portrait painting, if need were. Bhc gave a quiet nod of satisfaction.

There was a painter chap came to Abes gjyn summer, and he painted. William Jones.' "'Indeed I said, with an assumption of friendly interest.

M(Yes

I wanted him to paint me,, but he

wouldn't. He painted William Jones'father, though, along o* William Jonas.' ««This with an air of unmistakable disgust and recrimination. I looked at the girl more oba«- antiy. It bad never ooenrred to me t01 that moment that daewonldsoake a capital picture—just the sort of toady* which would fecth a fair price In the market. 1 adryTed fcsr fres sra easy manner, which was OBBtogtoas, and satdewnon the grass ogpoatte to ber.

'I Can't

•M-

I el ha it is at Is a id a miliarly, I'll paint you, though the other painter chap wouldn't' 'You will,' she cried, blushing with delight. 'Certainly and a veyy nice portrait I think you'll make. Be good enough to take off your hat, that I may have a better look at you.' "She obeyed me at once, and threw the clumsy thing down on the grass beside her. She glanced at me sidelong, laughing, and showed her white teeth. Whatever her age was, she was quite old enough to be a coquette. "Promptly as possible I put the question.. •You have not told me how old yon are.' 'Fifteen,' she replied, without hesitation. 'I should have taken you to be at least a. year older.' "She shook her head. 'It's fifteen year come Whitsuntide,' she' explained, 'since I come ashore.' "Although I was not a little curious to know what this 'coming ashore' meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony, and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another occasion. Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan with considerable interest, I asked her if she knew what it was, and if she had seen anything like it before. She replied in the negative, though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan's uses. I thought this a good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would she like to look at the interior? She said she would, though without exhibiting much enthusiasm. "I thereupon led the way up the pteps and into the vehicle. Matt followed but, so soon as she caught a glimpse of the interior, stood timidly on the threshold. What is there in the atmosphere of a house, even the rudest, which places the visitor at a disadvantage as compared with the owner? Even animalsfeel this, and dogs especially, when visiting strange premises, exhibit most abject humility. But I irust not generalize. The bearings of this remark, to quote my friend Capt. Cuttle, lies in the application ef it. Matt for a moment was awed. 'Come in Matt come in,' I said. "She came in by slow degrees and I noticed, for the first time—seeing ho near her hat was to the roof—that she was unusually tall. I then did the honors of the place: ihowed her my sleeping arrangements, my .mlinary implements, everything that I thought would interest her. I offered her the wm-chair, or turned-up bedstead but she preferred a stool which I sometimes used for ray feet, and, sitting down upon it, looked. round her with obvious admiration. 'Should you like to live in a house like this?' I asked, encouragingly. v"She shook her head with decision. *fi

'Why not? I demanded. •'She did not exactly know why, or at any rate could not explain. Wishing to interest and amuse her, I handed her a portfolio of my sketches, chiefly in pencil and pen-and-ink, but a few in water colors. Her manner changed at once, and she turned them over with little cries of delight. It was clear that Matt had a taste for the beautiful in art, but her chief attraction was for pictures representing the human face and figure. "Among the sketches she found a crayon drawing of an antique and blear-eyed gentleman in a skull cap, copied from some Rembrand tish picture I had seen abroad. "'I know who this is?' she exclaimed. 'It's William Jones' father!' "I assured her on my honor that William Jones' father was not personally known to me, but she seemed a little incredulous. Preeently she rose to go.

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stop no longer,' she explained,

Tve got to go up to Mcnkshurst for William Jones.' 'Monkshurst? Is that where the polite Mr. Monk resides!" «/. 'Ye^ tip in the wood,' sho roplied, with a grimac'6 expressive of no little disliko. 'Is Mr. Monk a friend cf yours "Her answer was a very decided negttivlf.* Then, slouching to the door, she swung herself down to the ground. I followed, and stood on the threshold, looking down at her. 'Don'fa forget that I'm to paint your pio turo,' I stdd. 'When will you come backf 'To-morrow, maybe.' STTV 'J "'I shall expect you. Gcod-byl'

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'Uood-by, master,' she returned, reaching up to shake hands. 'I watched her as she walked away toward the rcacl, ard noticed that she took bold strides, liko a boy. On reaching tho road she looked back and laughed, then she drew her* self together and began running like a young deer, with little or nothing of her former clumsiness, until she disappeared among the sandhills. "Thursday—This morning, just after breakfast, when I had entered the caravan to prepare my materials for the day's painting, Tim appeared at the door with a horrid grin. 'There's a young lady asking for ye,' he said. "I had forgotten for the moment my appointment of the day before, and, when 1 leaped from the caravan, I perceived, standing close by, with her back to me and her face toward the lake, the figure of a young woman. At first I failed to identify her, for she wore a black hat and a white feather, a cloth jacket, and dresa which almost reached tho ground but she turned round as 1 approached her, and 1 recognized my new acquaintance. "I cannot say that she was improved by her change of costume. In the first place, it made her look several years older—in faict, quite young womanly. In the second plaoe, it was tawdry, not to say, servant-gally, if I may coin such an adjective. The dress was of thin filk, old and frayed, and looking as il it had suffered a good deal from exposure to the elements, as was indeed the actual case. The jacket was also old, and seemed made oi thorough material which is usually cut into pea jackets which was the case also. The hat was obviously new, but, just as obviously, home made. 'So you have come,' I said, shaking hands. 'Upon my word, I didn't know you.' "She laughed delightedly, and glanced down at her attire, which clearly afforded her the greatest satisfaction.

I put on my clothes,' die explained, "cause I was going to have my likeness took. Dont you tell William Jones.' "I promised not to betray her to that insufferable nuisance, and refrained from informing her that I thought her oidina^ costume far more becoming than her sevenlhday finery. _»

That's a nice dress,' I said, hypocrilally. 'Where did you buy ifcP "'I didn't buy & It come ashore.'

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Continued on Seventh "y* 5

Life seems hardly worth the livlngto- 7 day to many a tired, unhappy diaoour-j^?^^. aged woman who is suffering from

chronic female weakneoa for which she has been able to find no relief. But there is a certain cure for all the painful complaints to which the weaker sex is liable. We refer to Dr. Pieree's "Fmvorito Prescription" to the virtues of t* which thou nan fin of women can testify. MJ As a tonie and nervine It ie unsurpassed. All draggteta.

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mlantas by Weetfssrds Bssittsry Ssttss. DSa no other this new