The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-09-15
A STUDIO EPISODE.
BY SUSIE ANTRoBUs.

A slim, rather intelligent-appearing six -footer, well-dressed and wearing an unusually deep weed on his high silk hat, walked into an artist's studio few months ago, and in voice as mournful as his general aspect was haggard, signified desire to have a portrait of his wife painted.
 The master of the palette and brush offered his would-be patron chair and immediately discussed the details of the affair. The latter wanted half length portrait, and did not hesitate at the liberal price required, but seemed satisfied, and only expressed himselfas being very anxious to have "striking likeness"
 "When will the lady come to sit?" I he was asked.
 The melancholy expression in his face increased as he gazed responsibility at the artist. "Why, bless you, sir," ;" he exclaimed in low voice, smooth ing out the wrinkles in his painfully new black kid gloves, "my wife is dead. Were she living I would not require the portrait, but we have no picture of her atall, not even 8 photo graph" He said this in an earnest, anxious tone of voice, and seemed ut- terly oblivious of the surprise he had occasioned the artist. The latter was SO taken aback for few seconds that he was perplexed for an answer. Finally he said 1t would be impossi- ble to paint the portrait, as he had never seen the lady.
 "I can tell you about her," said the man, eagerly. "You surely can paint from my description"
 "Well," said the artist, "give me as graphic word picture as possible" "Ah p-heaving a great sigh-"she was beautiful" and the new widower looked rapturously at the ceiling. It would be impossible for any man to express more affection and a greater sense of blighted hopes than he did in those four words.
 Visions offeminine beauty and grace fitted through the artistic mind as he waited for the description.
 "She was very beautiful, sir" re- peated the bereft husband.
 "So you said," replied the painter politely, but trifie hastily.
 The grieved widower relapsed into his former abstracted mood and was silent for moment. "Yes," with an- other sigh, deeper and more sepulchral than the other, "My wife Helen was the most beautiful woman ever saw"
 "Your description is vague" said the artist, impatiently. q cannot paint the portrait"
 Keen disappointment, almost imme- diately succeeded by hopeful ex- pression, was pictured on the mourn ing husbands countenance. "My wife's brother is almost perfect image of her," he cried, joyfully. "If you could see him I know you could paint the picture. He lives in the country, but I will send him to you," and he hur- ried away before the artist could reply.
 One morning some weeks later the artist looked up from his canvss to see a figure conspicuous for its lightness of color and leanness, standing close to his elbow, which, after many jerks and turns in answer to the invitation, seated itself.
 "Fve come to sit for sisters pic ture. You expected me, I suppose?" said the fellow in low tone. The artist folded his arms and, lean- ing back in his chair, gazed at this image of beautiful woman with pro- found gravity. Before him was youth remarkable for the extreme colorlessness ot his hair, moustache, lashes, eyes, brows, and sallow face. His attire. liko himself, was pale, and induced the idea that he had gone to bed in his clothes and risen in the morning without brushing them or properly pulling down the bottoms of his pants and his wrist bands. Added to these personal charms, the young man had his hair combed over his forehead and actually cut in a pointed bang. "My sister used to wear her hair this way; I combed mine so," said he, land If do say so myself, leaving out the moustache- Pm the living image of her, and she was beautiful woman" The artist in due time painted a portrait of the youth-minus the fif- teen or twenty bristles on the upper lip-with 8 woman's form. When the picture was completed the gratified widower wrung the painters hand in his excited delight, and paid him fifty dollars over the price expected. Then he sat in front of the portrait for over an hour, wiping his weep ing eyes and murmurinQ over and over again, "She was beautiful, she was beautiful, was my wife Helen."- Nesc York Mercury.