The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1905-02-17
and then moved slowly in the opposite

and then moved slowly In the opposite
direction.
| It was five days later, and the artist
sat before o picture he had intended
for the Academy, for the time of send
ing in was approaching.
He had put the finishing touches to
it that morning, and now he sat and
contemplated it. 1t was good work;
| in fact, it was great, and he knew 1t;
but he also knew that he had put
something into it that could never be
returned to him.
For four days he had never left his
studio, and now, as he sat there, a
| look of great contentment rested on
his careworn face. He had worked
| hard, and his last stroke of work was
| his best. He had done it for the
| love of the working" and as the pic
ture of girls face intruded itself for
| one moment before his minds eye,
| with an impatient movement OF his
arm he seemed to brush it away for
ever, and again bent his whole soul
| on the canvas.
There was knock at the door, and,
after a pause, the housekeeper of the
building entered with a request for
something in the room. He came slow
ly back to his surroundings, and, on
the request being repeated to him, he
rose from his chair and gave her what
she wanted.
AS he turned back to his picture a
fit Of coughing came upon him, leaving
| him white and shaking, so much so
that the woman stopped as she was
going out of the room and looked at
him irresolutely.
"It's all right now" he said with
breath, but the woman shook her head
as she went out.
He covered up the picture and then
walked to the mantlepiece. In the
middle of the shelf was photo
graph, which he took out of it's frame
and looked at long and steadily. Then
a family contemptuous smile curled
his lips, and he deliberately tore it
across and threw it into the CRATE
The deadened coal warmed into life
as the pieces fell on it, and, after curl
ing them up, consumed them in bril-
liant flame, which flickered for an in
slant and then died out.
The artist threw up his arms.
God! She hit me hard, as hard as
the rest of the world, but surely
that" and his eyes went to the pic
ture, sis a strong blow at them both.
Oh, my old warrior! it is great to
finish fighting, dealing good strokes to
the last"
His arms fell at his sides, and his
frame shook with another paroxysm of
coughing. His handkerchief bore GRIM
son stains as he took it from his lips.
He sank into chair and remained i'm
movable for some time, and then, 60
ing to the table, drew out sheet of
paper, and, taking up pen, wrote at
some length. When he had finished he
placed the paper in an envelope, sealed
it, and laid it on the easel with his
picture.
I'm case" he whispered to himself,
Gin case"
He lifted the cover and took another
long look at his work, and then slowly
put on his overcoat and hat and left
the room.
Some time later he sat before the
Velasquez picture in the National Gal
lery.
''It came hard at the last, soldier"
he half whispered to the painted form
before him, "the blows bit deeply
through your broken armor, but I
know you finished up with one good
stroke that showed you were a fight
ing man, though in the last your
strength was expended. All! but it is
good to do SO, fighting to the
Some of the attendants ran forward
as the artist fell to the ground, and
lifted him onto a chair:
A smile came to his face, to remain
there. His head fell back.
The warrior had died fighting.-La-
dy's Pictorial.