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THE TIMES “Not the slightest says Miss Peyton. with conviction. Womanâ€"like, she ll burning with curiosity. Not for an instant does she doubt that one of p her grated: wishes is about to be fulfilled; Mr. Hastings. who has asmall though not insignificant income of his own. independent of the Church. is about to marry her dearest Georgie. "Her dearest Georgie." raising her- self a little from her recumbent posi- tion. leans her arm upon Clarissa’s knee. and looks up into her face; there is imâ€" portance largely mingled with de- light in her fair features. “Well. then." she says, slowly. as though loath to part all at once with her treasured news, "last nightâ€"he told meâ€"that herâ€"was in love!" “Did hei"â€"with suppressed excite- men't. "Andâ€"and youâ€"what did you a). I. “I didn’t say much." says Miss Broughton, regretfully. "I might have said a great deal more. something kinder. more encouraging, you know; but I was so surprised and soâ€"â€"" “Pleased f"â€"tenderly. "Pleased! I should think so," with so much empmmement that even Clarissa is taken aback. "I was never so delighted in my life. only, as I said before, a little confused, and couldn't think of anything pretty to say." "I think it was far nicer your say- ing nothing.“ said Clarissa. very gently. She is a little disappointedfiin Georgie; a woman may be gird. to'inarry a man. but she should;"-'*say so. at least not exactly in '..lch a cold-blooded fashion. ""Can quite understand"â€"with suf- ficient hesitation to convince herself. at least. that she does not understandâ€" “how you felt nervous in spite of your happiness." "Oh. you always know everything." says Georgie, so lovingly that Clarissa hates herself for thinking even one un- pleasant thought of her. “\Vell, he went on to say he never loved before. Now, honestly Clarissa,”â€"in a thor- oughly n1attcr-of~fact tone,â€"â€""do you think that could be true?" “Why shouldn't it be true 9" says Clarissa, wishing with all her heart the other would be a little more sentr- mental over her own first love-affair, as she believes it to be. “\Vcll. yes, of course; he is rather young, and beauty goes along way with some men." Again Clarissa stares. She hadn’t thought Georgie vain of her own charms. How difficult it is to know any one. even one's chicfcst friends! "Then he went on to say he could never feel real happiness again until he knew he was loved iii return." “well?” ~breathlessly.â€"â€" “and then “I said,“-â€"â€"with the gayest little laugh imaginableâ€""I thought he was loved in return." "You thought, Georgie? fVVhat a strange answer! I do think you are a little bit coquettel I am so glad. though. Do you know, I guessed all along how it would be i" . "So did I. I knew very well how it would end. I felt he would fall a vio- tixn sooner or later. It is rather soon, isn't it '3 But of course it is only na- tural I should know about it 9" “Yes. only natural." Clarissa can think of nothing else to say. Not like this had she felt whenâ€". To talk of him as a victim! “I hope everything will be settled soon." goes on Miss Broughton, gayly, "'Happy is the wooin that isn’t long adolng.’ \And I shou (1 like the marâ€" riage to be soon' wouldn't you? I think next time lsee him I shall ask him about it." "Oh. Georgie, don't! Indeed I would not. if I were you." exclaims Clarissa, in an agony. Good gracious! Is she lost all sense of shame? like it. It is surely the man's part to! smirk about that." “Oh. very well,"â€"-a.micably. there couldn't be any speaking about it." "Just as much as in any other wo- man's." "Not so much as if it was Cissv i" "Twice as much. \Vhat has she got to do with it i" deal. I take it,"â€" “\\'ell. a great laughing again. "As a friend she may feel some in- terest in him, I suppose. But she is not going to marry nm." “Well. I think she is. You don't think she will refuse him. do you i"â€" anxiously. "Cissy Redmond i‘” '(‘issy Redmond." "Do you mean to tell me." says Clar- issa. growing very rod, "that it is Cissy on have been talkim.r about all this line. and notâ€"vourself i” “Myself! What. on earth are you thinking of i" It is now George's turn to blush crimson. and she does it very generously. Then she breaks into wild mirth. and, luyin her head on Clarissa's knecs. laughs tilfshe nearly cries. “Oh. when I think of all I have said l" she goes on, the kecncst enjoznncnt in her toneâ€""how [praised myself. and how cai'nlierly I treated his pro l. andâ€" wlmt was it I said about us 'ing him to mum the weddingqlayl Ob. Clarissa. what a dear you are lâ€"and what a goose I” "\\'cll. certainly. I never wasso tak- en in in my life." mnfcsses Miss Pey- ton. and then she laughs too, and pres- ently .is as deeply interested in Cissy-'5 lover as if he had indeed been Georgia's. harm in my CHAPTER XXI. "Sin and shame are ever tied together “'ith Gordian knots. of such a strong thread spun. _ They cannot wuhout violence be un- done." Sim the m r .i‘rdiiiu' .5 mar n e stings 0 eat " _ Reynolds. Upon Pullinghaiu a great cloud has dasended._ It has gathered in one night.â€"â€"swiftly. secretlyâ€"and has falâ€" len without warning. crushing many hearts. bencth it. Shame. and sin. and narrow, and that most terrible of all thingsâ€"uncertaintymhav-e come to- got her to form it. while doubt and sm- picion lie in us turn. “He won't i GUVERN ESS. ‘Ruth Annersley is mixing! She has disappearedâ€"utterly ! entirely !â€" leav- ing no trace behind her. no word. no line father. and which is slowly beginning to break. as the terrible truth dawns upon him. .Only yester eve she had poured out his tea as usual. .had hidden him good- mghaâ€"dgvmgly, indeed, but not as one would bid an eternal farewell. Afterâ€" ward. .he remembered, she had not given himâ€"on that night of all others â€"the customary kiss, but had away. from him coldly. was it that she feared? Tu'ed out miller had was her eye ' had set in, had gone for a little walk into the dewy woodS, where we are told "every bough that moves over our head has an oracular wisdom.” Alas! that they should have taught her so httle. She had crossed the road before the very eyes of her household. passed callouslyâ€"or with his day's work the gone to bed. The girl. as habit ever since the longer and never come back again. The .old man, who rises and goes to pbgd.“’ltlfl the 1sun (njisost constant com- mon o simp e min ), had slept peace- fully all night, never doubting that the child of his heart lay dreaming calm and hap y dmamS_in'her own room. Not .llntl the morning was far advanc- ed did he discover that Ruth's bed had known no occupant the night before. . Afterward. too. he remembered how little this thought had jarred upon him Just at first. It was strange, vex- ing ; she should have told him where she meant to spend her evening; but, be- yond that. it caused him no pang, no sus 101011. er aunt lived in a. nei hboring townâ€"probably she. had gone here. It was only four miles away,-â€"-a walk Ruth had taken many a day, and thought nothing of it; but it was im- prudentstartmg on such a journe so late in the evening; and, besrdes, there was always the old mare to drive her there and back. Messengers were dispatched to her aunts house, but they returned bringâ€" ing no tidings. She was not thereâ€"had not been for over a fortnight. Day wanes; twilight is descending,â€" “Melting heaven with earth. vmg on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams." so dear. \Vith ' ' ‘ ' he has thrust fr passmnate indignation t om him all the attempts a sympathy, all the hurtful, though welt-meant. .offers of assistance held out to him by kindly neighbors. Silent, and half-maddened by his thoughts, he sits dogged and Silent, refusing food, and waiting only for her who never comes. But when. at_ length, the gleaming comes. and day is over, without bring- ing. to him the frail form of her he so dmrres. he rises. and, gushing back his chair, goes up to Hyt e, and into the presrence vcifi ford Sartoris. ~ on \ ind me In girl " he says and then he tells him his sto ' _Sartoris. listens, and. ry .fear that is nearl a certain- ty. _Is this the end he has go dreaded? Is this the creeping horror that has of late tortured him? Alas for the un- blemished _honor of the old name that for centuries has held itself sans peur etHsans reprl'loche. . ow can e dare offer consolation to old Annersleyi He covers his hands. and bends forward over the table. There 13 something in his atti~ tude that denotes despair, and renders more keen the a; ' ' bosom. gony in Annersleys "\th do you do that 9” h ' ' _ _ rfirhat is there to e crrw frerce othrng‘. I tell you! his face with l «groan about 9 The child has 0 too fanâ€"has lost her way. She digdril't understand. She cannot find her road homeâ€"No moreâ€"no more 1" H13 excitement and to see. He wrings his hands; his whole bearing and expression are at variance wrth his ho )eful words. “She wrll'come back in an hour or two, may- hap. he says. miserably, “and then I shall feel that I have disturbed your lordsmp; but I am in a hurry, you see; grief are pitiful "But I want her, and I cannot wait." ‘O'ély'hat doS yotu want me to do for _' . says ar oris, very humbl . He feels that he can hardly lift his ages in this man's presence. ."Find her! That is all I ask of you. Find her, dead or alive! You are a. great mamâ€"high in authority, with power, and servants at command. Find me my child] Oh. man, help me, in some way. He once this in an impassionate tone. He is totally overcome. His poor old white head falls helplessly upon his clasped arms. .Iartoris. pale as death. and visibl affected. can make no .reply. He tram): bles. and stands before the humble miller as one oppremed with guilt. :‘lnpersley mistakes his meaning. and. striding forward, lays his hand upon hm arm. “‘iou are silent,” he says, in a ter- rible tone, made up of grief and an- guish more intense than words can tell. "lou do not think she is in the wrong, do you? You believe her inno- cent? ngklâ€"speak!" ."I do." responds Sartoris, and only his own heart knows that he lies. Yet his tone IS so smothered. so unlike his usual one, that he hardly recognizes it himself. "If Mr. Branxombe were only here." says Annersloy. in a stricken voice. after a lengthend pause. “he would help me. He. has always been a kind friend to me and mine." Lord Sartoris draws a deep breath. that _is almost a sob. :“ hen does he rcturn, my lord 7" On Saturday. He said so, at least, when leavrng." "A 10' time." murmurs the old man. mouqu lv. “She will be home before that.â€"i_f she ever comes at all. His bmd Sinks upon his breast. Then he: muses himself. and, glancing at Lord' Sat-tons. says cntreatingly. "Won't you write to him. my lord? Do. I im- plore of you. and conjure him to re- turn. If any one can help me it will be Mr. Dorian!" "I shall write to him nowâ€"nowâ€"st once." says Sartoris. mechanically.fecl- ing how hideous is the mockery of this promise. knowing what he knows. Even vet he clings to the hope that he has Eecn mistaken. 1 bus- he scoihcs the old man with rain to relieve the heart of the old yuan. her had entered the green forest of early- breakrng leaves, had faded from sight. andso tsridofhim. that may be left _ no with his own thoughts. ‘Shall he go to Dorian? This is the first engrossing idea. Yet it affords but little cmsolation. To see him. to hear him. to listen to a denial from his hps;.that is what it holds out to him. and It. is all insufficient. How shall he. believe him. knowing the man y things that have occurred? How .no other. He noticed the cost mmtl treat his very most eager denial as anything but a falsehoodi h‘or hours he panes enng on what is the best course to pur- sue. He is not his father, that he can coerce him. By nature ' (though tender-hearted and indilgent in other ways). it comes easily to him to believe that even the man in whom he . 8-8 has trusted has been found wanting. “To doubt is worse than to have lost." says Massinger; and surely he is right. 1‘15. in deep perplexity. acknow- ledges the truth 0 himself that in his old age he has been sorely tried. The whole world seems changed. Sunshine has given place to gloom; and he himself stands alone.â€" “Sto nde and amazde at his own shade E and or dreed, , And fearling greater daungers than was no e." . Not until he is thoroughl ' exhaustâ€" ed, both in mind and body, oes he do- cide on leaving for town by the mid- daly train next day. n to and fro. pond-‘ ' cold. suspicious _ l l l E l u this line. and tells i mutt. "Not that 1 l 4 l ! icler. And a damn'd shame it is in iml If you don't believe me. I can't help you. I believe it; that is enough for me.’ ” . Gale ceases . And Silence goglmwi thggallgsts for several minutes. an e s ' am: "I ask your paifion, my lord. for havâ€" ing so spoken about any member of the family. But I thought it was only right you should know." "You have acted very kindly." Even to himmlf his tone is strained and "This Andrews must be silcnc-i ed." he says. after a little pause. full of bitterness. "I have seen to that, my lord. After l what I said to him. he will hardly speak sin to any one on the subject." “See to it, Simon. Let him fully un- derstand that dismissal will be the re- sult of further talk." . "I will. my lor ." Then. very Wist- any one would dis- trust Mr. Dorian in this matter. I feel â€"-I know, he is innocent." Lord Sartoris looks at him strangely; his lips quiver; he seems old and worn as a man might who has just seen his last hope perish. “I envy you your faith," he says. wearily; "I would give halfâ€"nay. all I ‘sess. if I could say that honestly." list at this moment there comes an interruption. “A telcgmm. my lord," says one of the mean time he will telegraph to the men. handing in a yellow envelope. Claridge’s. some faint remembrance lingering with him of Dorian’s having made mention of that hotel as being atll any one's fancy could possibly paint 1 . _But the morrow brings tidings. . .It is almost noon, and Sartoris, srt- lung in his library, writing some bus- mess letters,â€"prepara.tory to catching the up train to town,â€"is disturbed by a light knock at the door. “Come in,” he calls out, impatiently; and Simon Gale, opening the door, comes slowly in. He is a very old man, and has been butler in the family for more years than he himself can count. His head is quite white, his form a little bent; there is, at this moment, a. touch of deep disâ€" tress upon his face that makes him look even older than he is. . "Are you busy, my lord i” asks he, in a. somewhat nervous tone. “Ya; I am very much engaged. . I can see no one Gale. Say I am starting for town immediately." "It isn’t that, my lord. It is some- thing I myself have to say to you. If Eon could spare me a few minutesâ€"1' 6 comes a little nearer, and speaks “It is about its own even more earnestly. Ruth Aunersley." Lord Sartoris. laying down his pen. looks at him intently. "Close the door, Simon." he says, hur- riedly, something in the old servant’s manner impressing him. “I will hear you. Speak. man: what is it '3" “A story I heard this morning. my lord. which I feel it my duty to repeat to you. Not that I believe one word of it. You will remember that, my lord, â€"not one word." The grief in his tone belies the truth of his avowal. His head is bent. His old withered hands clasp and unclasp each other nervously. “You are trembling," says Lord Sar- toris. "Sit down. This news, whatâ€" ever it is, has unstrung you." “It has," cries Simon. with vehem- ence. "I am trembling; I am unstrung. How can I be otherwise when I hear such a. slander gut upon the boy I have watched from is cradle 9” “You are speaki . ofâ€"â€"-?" demands Sartoris, with an e fort. “Mr. Dorian." He says this in a. very low tone; and tears, that always come so painfully and so slowly to the old, shine in his eyes. "His sad complexion wears grief‘s mourning livery." He covers his face with his hands. Sartoris, rising from his seat, goes over to the window. and so stands that his face cannot be seen. “\Vhat have you got to say about Mr. Branscombe i" he asks, in a. harsh, discordant tone. “My lord. it is an impertinence my speaking at all," says Gale. "Go on. Let me know the worst. I can hardly be more miserable than I am." returns Sartoris. “It was Andrews, the underâ€"gardener, was telling me," begins Simon, with- out any further attempt at hesitation. “This morning, early, I met him near the Ash Grove. ‘Simon.’ he says, ‘I want to speak wi' ye. I have a secret on my mind.’ “ ‘If you have, my man, keep it,‘ says I. 'I want none 0' your secrets.’ For in truth he is often very trouble- some, my lord, though a well-meaning youth at bottom. “ 'But it is on my conseience.’ says he. ‘and if I don't tell it to you I shall tell it to some one else, because tell it I must, or bust !' “So when he went that far, my lord, I saw as how he was real uneasy, and I made up my mind to listen. And then he says.â€" “ ‘Night before last feyther was com- ing through the copse wood that runs t’other side 0' the fence from Master Annersley's, and there. in the thickest part 0' it, he saw Miss Ruth a standing. and wi' her Mr. Branscombe.’ “'\Vhich Mr. Branscombe ?' says I. "'Mr. Dorian.’ he says. 'He seen him as plain as life, though it was dusk, standing wi' his back half turned to- ward him. but not so turned but what he could see his ear and part 0' his face. He had a hold 0' Miss Ruth's hands; and_was speaking very earnest to her. as though he were persuading her to something she were dead against. And she were crying very bitter. and trying,r to draw her hands away: but resently she got quiet like; and then t cy went away together, slowly at first, but quic. ’er afterward. in the direction of the wood that leads to Langham. He did not stir a peg until they was out o' sight, he was so afeard 0' being seen. And now it is on his consoience that he did not k sooner. even since he saw old Mr. Annersley yesterday. like a mad creature, looking for his girl.’ “That was his story, my lord. And he told it as the h he meant it. I said to him as how Ir. Dorian was in Lonnun. and that I didn't believe one word of it; and then he said,â€" "‘Imnnun or no Lonnun. there is no mistake about it. If, as you say. he did go up to Lonnun. he must ha' come down again by the Langham train. for he him \vi’ his two eyes.’ " 'Mr. Horace is very like Mr. Dorian.’ I said. ( Forgive me. my lord. but there was a moment when I would gladly have believed the blame might fall on Mr. Horace.) 'There are tunes when one can hardly know them asunder ;' but he scouted this notion. "'Feyther seen him.’ he said. ' He had one 0' them light overcome on be is .so fond o' wearing. It was him. and l l SartoriS. tearing it open, reads hur- riedly. “I shall not go to town, Gale," he says, after a minute or two of thOUfiI‘Et. “Countenorder the carriage. 'r. Branscombe comes home to-nrght." (To Be Continued.) _.o.â€"__ THROUGH SIBERIA ON A BICYCLE. R. L. Jcncrson of London Planning a (Limbo-mile Ride in Hue Spring. Mr. R. L. Jefferson, now residing in London, is arranging for a 3.500-mile tour on a bicycle. He has already made a. trip to Constantinople and Moscow on wheels. The feat he now contemplates will completely overshadow all previ- ous expeditions. The Siberian wilds have been crossed by horsemen and tra- vellers, who have been content to stow themselves away beneath the furs on a. sledge. But no man has yet attempt- ed to pierce the solitudes of Siberia alone and mounted upon the iron steed of modern invention. V He intends to start early in May. as the Siberian summer extends from May to July. He will take a steamer to St. Peteerurg. and proceed to Moscow by train, as no useful purpose would be served'by his riding on a bicycle from London, for he has already covered the ground. \Vh‘en he was last in Moscow he discussed the difficulties of the jour- ney with several of his Russian friends. The first difficulty will be the question of the machine. He is having three bi- cycles specially built for him. Each will be of the pneumatic shod pattern. They will not be too light, for a punc- ture or a breakdown would be most un- desirable. Should either occur he will be able to repair the machine himself. To provrde against the event of a bad smashâ€"up. he will send two of his ma- chines to the town of Tomsk. the capi- tal of the province of that name. and situatedon the great trading highway of Siberia, from whence they can be sent by train or sledge. \Vhen he starts from Moscow he will try to follow the great SIB BRIAN HIGHWAY amid the route mapped out by Jules Verne and followed by his hero. Michael Strogoff. Following this route he will pass through the following towns: Kazan, Perm. Tinmen. Omsk. Kolivan. :l'cmsk. Kansk. and Irkutsk. The last is the residence of the Governorâ€" Gcncrnl of Eastern Siberia, is a town about twelve hundred' feet above the level of the sea, and enjoys a very healthy climate, though in winter the cold 13 so severe as to freeze mercury. Here Mr. Jefferson’s bicycle ride will end. .The greatest danger of the jourâ€" ney will be the wolves; but Mr. Jeffer- son thinks that a good loud bicycle bell er'l frighten them away. even as the sleigh bells do. There is, of course some fear from the various predatory bands whom he may meet upon the Steppes. 0!‘ these the Kurds and the C(RSZICkS will be the worst, and as he gets as far north as the province of Tomak he will meet with the 'l‘artars on. the western slopes of the Ural moun- tains. But he has been told that if he rides on quietly and takes no notice of_ any one of those predatory hordes Will not interfere with him. But, :1!- lhonn‘h he has selected the great Si- beria-n lughroad, he will, if necessary, leave the beaten track and make a bee lme for his destination by the mmpass. \thn asked about the rivers, be said that he anticipated no trouble in this rcsncct, as they are all bridged. Nor Will he have anv difficulty regarding food. for. as in British India, there are in Russran Siberia Government sts, where a traveller can obtain both food and protection for the night. . The distance from Moscow to Irkutsk is. roughly speaking, 3,500 miles. and he will allow himself three months for the Journey. Upon arrival at Irkutsk he Will be on the borders of Chin-1, where he hopes to join a caravan and proceed to Pckin. From. Pckin he will travel to Shanghai, where he will embark in a simmer for home. In the event of being unable in travel through China, he will return on his bicycle to 'l'omsk, or if he can obtain a vehicle, a' sleigh. for example. he will iourney by this means. and then take the train at Tomsk for Moscow. He does not ex- pect to troubled by Russian officials in Siberia to the same extent as he was during his bicycle ride from Con- stantinople to Moscow. Ills journey will be purely one of pleasure. but at the same time he hopes to add con- sndorahle to the geographical know- ledge of the country through which he will pass. +â€"__. .m... Helping Each Other. Mr. Cawkerâ€"I admire the helpful spirit the “'ilberforce boys display. They are always doing what they can for each other. Mr. Courseâ€"What lately 3 Mr. Cawker-John has become a den- tist. while James has established aswect have they done - factory. DESCRIPTION OF THE CAPITAL OF THE TRANSVAAL. The President or the Boer Republic SRclchcd by a French Travellerâ€"The Boon fall mm “l‘nclc Pourâ€"A lila- jcsuc Looking Man. The recent events in the Transvaal have brought the search lights of news- papers upon Pnul Kruger. President of the South African Republic. and some interesting details have been revealed by a French traveller (M. Leelercq). whose notes are extensively copied in the French papers. "Let us transport ourselves to Pro- toria." he says. "the capital of the Transvaal. If you arrive there in the nighttime, in the pale light of the eleo- tric lamps, you not ice the wide and large streets. and the whole town seems to be of enormous proportions. But this illusion is dissipated. or. at least, attenuated when you put up at the Transvaal Hotel. the only hotel in the city. It is a little oneâ€"story house. with a 'roof like that of a cottage. In reality, Pretoria is neither a town nor a village. It is an immense park. in which houses. villas, and cottages are scattered. It is the appropriate capiâ€" tal of a. republic of peasants. The streets and avenues. which are bordered by gi- gantic eucalyptus trees. are. in some instances. one or two leagues in length. which is a small matter for people who travel either on horseback or in wagons drawn by steers. But Pretoria, which might easily hold half a million of inâ€" habitants, has only 10,000. It is one vast collection of gardens. Until the v buildings become multiplied, it will con- tinue to present to the eye little more than verduro, flowers. and shady spots. ONE CURIOUS DETAIL is that the weeping willows imported from the island of St. Helena are as common as the rose trees which form the hedges or fences of the different places. _ "The climate is extremely variable. The mornings are sharp and cold, and later on the heat becomes intense. One would r uire to have the robust constitution o a ‘Bocr to be able to stand the extraordinary changes In tem- perature. In the summer the hall storms are extremely dangerous, be- cause the hailstones are big enough to kill any one outright who does not take the precaution to run for shelter when the cloud ap )ears. "In the center 0 the town is a little old Dutch church, around which are grouped the principal commercial houses and public buildings, the Government palace. or. as it is called, the Palace of a Hundred Rooms. in which the Par- liament assembles, and also the Min- isterial departments, the bureaus of the President of the Republic, the So )reme Court. and the Court of Appea 3. "Every morning the Volksraad asâ€" sembles to legislate in a large hall, in which the portrait of the President is the most conspicuous piece of ornament- ation. The eighty-four'legislabors lay down their pipes and art before tables covered with green cloth, upon which are vases contaming fresh water, which the legislators absorb in surprising quantities. Soon there appears a cor- pulent personage decorated with a large green sash. the sign of Presr- dcmial dignity. This is the first citizen of the State. Paul Kruger, or 'Uncle Paul.’ as the Boers call him familiarly. "Everybody rises as the President on- ters. He salutes the Assembly with sonorous ‘Gocden morgcn.’ He is a rather majestic-looking man, but his .Majcsty has something rather rustic about him, with his poorly fitting coat and his BIG GREEN SASH. The tribune upon which he preside: looks like a. royal throne surmounted by a canopy, Whose draperies. in the national colors, form a frame for the arms of the republic. By the side of this there is a. modest tribune, upon which the President of the Volksraad is seated. This gentleman, after “Uncle Paul.’ is the chief citizen of the re ub- lic. At the foot of the tribune of "l ncle Paul,’ at a little table. sits a man of a military air, with small, determined eyes, and a long, thick board. This is the hero of whom the Boers are so proud. Gen. Joulmrt, the popular and valiant Captain who beat the English at Majuba llill. Joulmrt was the com: pctitor of Kruger at the lust President- ial elections. " 'Uncle Paul.’ is at the present time a fine old man of about 70 years, of powerful build. with robust licallb.and prodigious physical strength. I am as- sured on the bead authority that. .thr President of the Transvaal cats his two pounds of meat at each one of his three meals. ilis capacity in this respect sur- passes that of all other chiefs of State His nose is big and reddish. his lip is wide and thick, and his bwrd is cm after the fashion of sailors. Ilis eye is small and almost malicious, and the cuminblo of the face represents a. typ- ical Boer in all his rudeness and native oner y. "'_l\. Kruger draws 200 francs from crvil_ list. As a matter of course, he has. rcocrved numerous decorations, but he Ls CWIR'UY proud of having dined with Prince Bismarck and with the Emperor of Germany. He uffccis I‘C'SEI‘VQ’HI ant. tolerany majestic. manners. The son of an honest farmer, his education is somewhat limited, but, circumstances have lifted him up to the position of a genuine leader in the G lie is a great patriot, a severe Puritan in his manners, and profoundly reli- gious. Two qualities which he possess- es in a rare degree are good horse sense and integrity, and his conduct has shown that he knows how to unite in- domitable oncrgy with all the resources of diplomatic skill. "The language of the Boers is tin. officral language of the capital but a singular and inexplicable phenomenon is presented in the fact that, even at Pretoria. Englishjs the language in common use, and it has entirolv mkcn the place of Dutch." ' Young lawyerâ€"“Thank heaven! Alast I have a caseâ€"a young r :‘al who has at least half a. dozen lb.- t. on his conscience," “fileâ€""How kind of him torhoose you for his (filIlUl‘éffl. Don't you tlun‘k we ought to invite bin: .u um- ner " PIGTURE 0F PAUL HUGE ovcrnmcnt.‘ ’. F‘-<.