Commandant Wolmarans, whom English and Boers, without a single exception, respect and honor, held my hand in both of his while he begged, through the interpreter, that I would remember them, that I would always remember them in my prayers. He begged it yet again. A group of old men sat round silent and deeply moved. A grayheaded commandant whom I had often seen, but whom I had never heard speak, came forward with the only words I ever heard from him, and certainly the only words of English he knew, and shook my hand. "God bless you, Mrs. Green," he said. In my visit I made, indeed, many friends in camp-friends whom I shall long remember, and hope to meet again in a happier scene.

For Deadwood Camp is a place of sorrow. In saying this I know I am going against the general voice of St. Helena. The island is universally proud of the wholesome influence of its trade-winds, even if the camp turns into a soaking bog under winter rains, and in summer suffers actual waterfamine. Five months ago miserable men were landed here; some had been imprisoned over three months in ships; fed on biscuit and bully beef, shut down from air, and only allowed one hour in twenty-four on deck; packed tightly in ships which had been used for cattle and were horribly infested with vermin, the most intolerable suffering to these men; for four months they had had no change of clothes, day or night from what they wore on the battlefield. Others had come from the horrors of Paardeberg. They had lain, over nine hundred of them, for over a week in the sultry harbor of Jamestown till the camp was ready. Broken with suffering and misery they took six hours to march the five miles to the camp and their aspect filled all who saw them with pity. There was some sickness among them at first, but

in the healthy breezes and the sunshine their strength returned; and fever has by this time practically died out. There is scarcely any illness now, save among the very old and a few cases of wounds. In the Hospital, by the wise and kind arrangement of the doctor, the sick Boers are nursed by orderlies of their own race, willing to come from the camp to minister to their compatriots.

There are important problems with regard to camp life which deserve the fullest discussion. But at the best is there no room left for tragedy and sorrow?

It

There is a great effort in the camp itself to preserve a vigorous and cheerful air. Sports were got up while I was there, which had an excellent effect in raising their spirits. Many of the prisoners are wonderfully industrious. They work hard at the new occupations they have discovered, of carving and the like. Some found a teacher and learned what they could of languages or arithmetic. About forty of them are allowed to work for some island people at gardening or painting. Those who are employed, however, must of course be few. The rest have to bear their burden in idleness. was melancholy to see the boys. When I tried to take a photograph of the lads it looked like a small school. Young as they are, they look even younger than their age, and one's heart sorrows for children in such a camp. In some of the strong young men the devil's work of bitterness and despair is being carried out; for "great distress has never hitherto taught, and while the world lasts it will never teach, wise lessons to any part of mankind." Others have patience and unquenchable fortitude; their private griefs they carry with a grave reserve so far as outsiders go, which deceives, as I came to think, the unobservant looker-on. In all talk the first question is the public welfare, the

fate of their country; the rest lies next to it in God's hands. A few have broken down from grief. One, of French blood originally, was sent into a melancholy mania by the sight of a photograph of his wife and children sent to him; others were growing old men and grave. "This is a place where men grow very serious," a young man said to me; "some of them laugh no more, some have grown gray. I am glad I am not married." One or more have died of senile decay. A few others that I saw will probably follow in the same sad road; it seemed inconceivable, on any theory of war, that it should be necessary to carry as prisoners to St. Helena the group I saw newly brought in-old men over sixtyfive, bowed down by paralysis and various infirmities, sitting there motionless, a sick and hopeless company, on the edge of the grave. It seemed as if they had been transported by mistake. I have read and heard, as we all have, a cheap and vulgar mockery of the Boer religious services. But no observer can go to the Sunday gatherings of the camp, and sit in the very midst of the people as I did, without seeing a sight that is not laughable, old far-seeing men "waiting still upon God," while on some, not all, but in truth on some of the younger faces (very poor men, I thought), there was an ecstasy of rapt entreaty for "a present help in time of trouble."

"How could you face war?" I said to a trembling old man of sixty-five, who had volunteered to fight. "I prayed to the Lord," he said; "I gave myself and my family to His care. And it was wonderful to see how He

strengthened us. There was not a tear. One daughter carried my rifle, the other my bandolier, and my wife (she is sixty-three) carried my bag. They were all quiet; you would never have thought, I was going away. I did a soldier's duty; I did what I had to

do. It is strange, in the heat of a fight you do not care what happens. You shoot, and you do not care. How it should come that a thing like that can happen I do not know, but it does happen to a man. But, oh, it is a bitter thing to think of afterwards! When I think of what I saw all round me I shiver with horror. Believe me, I can scarcely keep the tears out of my eyes at night when I think of the sufferings I have seen. I grieve as much for the widows in England as for those of our own people. I know I am a prisoner, and must be obedient," he added. "I have my parole and can go a little way out of the camp, and sit down quietly to read. I am thankful they give me that liberty." I said a word of sympathy. "It is well," he answered gently, "that we have the Bible left." I was often touched to see how the prisoners share the burdens of a common calamity. There is much tenderness to the old and afflicted, and gentleness and respect to those whose sacrifices were conspicuous. I remember the general anxiety that I should humor by taking his photograph a poor, shaking, deaf old man who had nine sons and sons-in-law in the war, and, coming into the camp to see some of them, had been taken prisoner of war. The whole crowd stood him up, and sat him down, stroked his gray locks, and turned his battered slouch hat up and down to see what particular cock became him best, and shouted explanations in the deaf old ears.

I have unfortunately met some men and women who can feel no compassion for any sorrows which are the just deserts, as they think, of men who have fought against England. By such a spirit as this do we hope to make Imperal rule beloved! This, however, was the feeling of those who "stood afar off." There is many a true Englishman, who has reflected on the story of his own people, who, if he himself

IX.

HECTOR LE PRIEUX' PLAN.

"I have my plan-" It was with these words, uttered for the third time, that Hector Le Prieux left his daughter's lover, and set forth armed with the letter which he had made him write, and also with Reine's despatch. "I will send it back to you to morrow, with the latest tidings," he had said; "I need it now."

It was evident that this note touched a tender spot in his heart, for as he turned again into the Luxembourg garden, Charles, who was watching him from the balcony, saw him spelling out word by word the dear handwriting, so absorbed by the thoughts it called up that he did not see where he was until he emerged at the farther gate, having crossed the garden in a sort of dream. He had been in the habit, in his early days, of reading his morning paper at a café adjoining the Odéon, and hither he now turned unconsciously. By chance it had remained unaltered; decorated, years before, by impecunious artists who had thus paid their scores, its walls still displayed four ill-assorted panels, representing Venus arising from the sea, a dying stag in a thicket, Pierrot gazing at the moon, and a grizette of the Latin Quarter. The Bohemianism of this smoky tavern was as little in harmony with the delicate romance of Reine and her cousin, as with the habits of refined society which Hector had long observed. But the glamor of his youth hung about this resort of students and

• Translated for The Living Age by Mary D. Frost. Copyright by The Living Age Company.

rapins. He seated himself at a vacant table, without even noticing the attention excited among the habitués of the place a somewhat disorderly crew, both men and women-by the presence of a man past fifty, dressed like a president of the council, and wearing his ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his button-hole.

He called for writing-materials, and drew up in a bold and rapid hand, on this tavern-paper, a letter of two pages, which he signed with almost aggressive firmness. This was addressed to Crucé, and despatched at once by a messenger. Is it necessary to add that it cut short in his own name and his wife's, all projects for a matrimonial alliance with the Faucherots?

This business accomplished-the first step in his plan-he looked at his watch, and saw that if he returned home at this hour, he should meet neither his wife nor his daughter. He at first thought of proceeding at once to his office to talk over his next day's chronique with the editor, as he often did. But the bare idea of entering upon his daily round before going through with the two interviews for which he was fortifying himself, was odious to him. A reminiscence of the habits of his youth crossed his mind. "Why should I not write here as I used to do?" he thought, and taking up the pen once more, he began to write as deliberately as before, his reflections upon the reckless extravagance and luxury of the Paris life of to-day. When six o'clock struck, he was still there scribbling his twelfth sheet. His chronique for the next day was done; he reread it with a singular mixture of pride and despondency-for the first

time in years he had written something of which he was not secretly ashamed, -something out of his own heart, to please himself, and not as a task. This diatribe against luxury and its thraldom had not only killed two weary hours for the journalist; it had strengthened his determination to save his daughter from a mercenary marriage and a ruined life.

"Six o'clock," he said to himself, as he crossed the threshold of the café; "I shall find a cab in front of the Odéon; at half-past six I shall be at home, and have a few moments to talk with Reine before dinner. The important thing is that the poor child should not pass her night in grief. How happy she will be to get Charles's letter! Fanny Perrin was right, she would have died of grief over that other marriage— But how did she ever make up her mind to it? That is what I shall soon know!" He stopped an empty cab and jumped in. The question to which his mind had turned incessantly since the previous evening took possession of him again:

"What could Mathilde have said to Reine to conquer her resistance which she was so unwilling to reveal to her cousin? and why, on the other hand, is her mother so bent on this marriage? These Faucherots have nothing to recommend them but their money-money! Yes, but Mathilde does not worship money, she is so generous! And yet it is true that in this ridiculous life we lead it is impossible to calculate the yearly increase in our expenses. is just as I have been saying in that article" And all at once, by an irresistible association of ideas, he began to ask himself how his own budget stood at the moment, and in the midst of this mental calculation an unexpected hypothesis presented itself, which he tried to set aside, but in vain: "Good heavens! what if Mathilde has run into debt? What if she were under pecu

It

niary obligations to the Faucherots? Heaven grant this may not be the true reason for her desiring this marriage and for Reine's consenting to it!-no, it cannot be!-it cannot be!"

Thus the sort of subconscious activity which goes on in the mind under the influence of intense excitement had led this husband, whose disposition was so far from inquisitorial, close to the actual truth. He was "burning," as children express it, in the game of 'hide-and-seek. This divination was to render the execution of the plan of which he had spoken to Charles all the more painful.

The plan was this: to hand Charles's letter to Reine, and wring from her in the first rush of emotion on reading it a full avowal of her love and acceptance of Charles. He would then undertake to conquer his wife's opposition. It was for this purpose that he had wished to keep the despatch. In the presence of such an undeniable proof of their child's inclination, she could not persist in a project of whose cruelty she had hitherto had no conception. The mysterious reason which Reine had refused to reveal might turn out after all to be a mere misunderstanding. Although he clung to this idea with the whole power of his love for his wife, still this man, so clear-sighted where his heart was not concerned, could not drive away that new suspicion which had arisen, as it seemed, in the most fortuitous way.

As he opened the door of the apartment with the little gold latch-key--a present from his wife-which he wore as a charm on his watch-chain, this idea assailed him anew; and at the same time the recollection came into his mind of one of the leading Paris publishers, who had said to him a short time before: "I am founding a new Review, Le Prieux. Why should you not write your reminiscences for me? Afterwards I will publish them