Year: 1873

n


PAINTED FROM MEMORY.


When was younger in my profession
than am now, Dresden was my favor
ite holiday resort. In the quiet and
slow-howing hfe-current of that old
world home of the fine arts, I frequent
ly sought and found relaxation from
the strain of work-a-day months in
London.


One January night found me seated
cold, travel-stained and weary-in the
train at Hamburg en- route for my old
resort. Experience had taught me that
in Germany fellow-traveler implies an
instantaneous deprivation of the guam
tum of the fresh air necessary to keep
the lungs in play. So, calling the
guard, requested that / might be
secure from intrusion. Touching his
cap with laconic "gut" he pocketed
doucel1r and locked me in. The train
started. For a few moments we stop at
a waysids station. I consulted my
watch. How cold it grows as the day
draws his last shivering breath. Strange
at this hour the springs of being are at
their lowest in all that lives, whilst, in
mystic sympathy with the dying day,
the life is split out of those in whose
cup are only its lees. j wrap my cloak
around me.


Once more we were on the point of
starting, when the door I imagined
securely looked was gently and easily
opened. A lady entered and seated
herself opposite me. Below my breath
1 confounded the guard for false Deut-
cher, and reflected how extraordinary it
was that the intruder should be a wo-
man, for abroad the fair sex have special
travelling compartments, where no man
dare put in an appearance, and vice
versa. In the confusion of starting she
had doubtless mistaken her carriage,
and now, perhaps, felt uncomfortable.
AS the cold each moment increased, I
offered her one Of my warm wraps, ad-
dressing a few conventional words to
her on the topic of the weather. "Thank
you, she said, in a quiet and perfectly
self-possessed voice, "but indeed I do
not feel the cold you speak Of" A
story is often told in the tone of voice
and the tone of this one was peculiar.
Unmistakably English and we'll bred !;
but there was no ring in it, only GER
tain hopelessness sufficiently pathetic.
She had evidently noticed some of my
professional belongings in the netting
above me, for as I silently pondered
what manner of woman she was she
thus addressed me


You are an artist?"


81 am.


"Could you paint portrait from
memoryP"


"Most certainly"


She removed the thick veil that con-
oealed her face, and laid aside her bon
net. The light from the lamp fell full
on her. She had lovely face, but it
was cold and white and still as chisled
marble. She encountered the bold,
steady gaze OF masculine eyes, yet no
tinge of color hiolxered on her cheek.
A mass of iuddy brown hair was ooiled
around her shapely head large brown
oyes, full of the dumb, questioning
pain Ihave seen in the eyes of a hunted
deer at bay, looked out from between
dark lashes.


Marring the stainless white of the left
cheek, livid mark ran from the tenn
pie into the neck; it almost looked as if
a stingiug riding-switch had been drawn
swift and sharp across the face, burn
ing its brand into the del
icate flesh. Her dress was OF
black velvet, and around the throat and
wrists we're rufiies Of costly lace.
yours, I said, "is not face to be
forgotten. I could any day paint your
portrait from memory. E-1
.', VIII Won do 30 -.