had taken an active part under Kossuth, for
whom he had boundless enthusiasm. My men
had withdrawn to their own camp-fire, out of
hearing; so his only auditors were myself and
my boy. He was consequently unreserved in his
communications. After describing a cavalry
skirmish in which he had been wounded and taken
prisoner, he proceeded to tell me he escaped
in a manner almost miraculous, and landed on
English soil without a sixpence in the world.

"Never shall I forget," he said, "the
crushing feeling of loneliness which came upon
me when night arrived, and when I saw
others hurrying, after their daily business,
to their happy homes in the crowded city.
Weak and hungry, I knew I could not last
long, and I laid myself down in an archway to
die. The pangs of hunger, however, soon
roused me, and I went to a shop and disposed
of some of my clothes, whereby I was enabled to
live for some days. I went everywhere seeking
employment, as teacher of languages, as
writing-master, as clerk, as porter, but all in
vain. No one would believe my story, no one
would employ me without a character. I
showed my wounds. I asked shelter until
I could produce credentials from Hungary.
Fruitless. At last, when literally starving, I
roamed into the country. I had never yet
begged. I had always offered my services; but
now pride began to break down, and I
determined to become a mendicant. I approached
a country house, and saw a very young man reading
in a bow-window which was partly open.
Three times I went within a few paces of that
window, and three times I turned away, despairing.
The young man, meanwhile, never raised
his head, being absorbed in his book. Hunger
spurred me on. I advanced, and said:

"'Help a poor man, Von Germaner?'

"The youth looked up, and said, hastily and
angrily, 'No.' He was very handsome, and the
angry look did not become him.

"Slowly and mournfully I retired; and, I
think, for the first time since my exile, tears
flowed from my eyes. Hardly had I walked a
hundred yards, when I heard a hasty step behind
me, and, on turning, I met the young man
running without his hat.

"'Stop!' said he; 'I was infernally busy with
a choral ode when you spoke to me. Are you
really in distress?'

"'I am a beggar,' I said, bitterly, 'and my
words are hollow, of course. The poor are
always impostors—in the eyes of the rich.'

"'There is no of course in it,' he replied;
'hollow! Why, God knows, your cheeks are
hollow enough. You are a real foreigner, too,
and have read English authors, or you never
would have used that word hollow as you did.
Are you hungry?'

"'I have not tasted food for three days and
three nights.'

"'Here!' exclaimed the young fellow, 'wait
till I get my hat! Don't move from the spot!'
And away he ran towards the house, leaving me
wondering at his strange manner.

"In a few seconds he returned, breathless,
and led me, with amazing rapidity, to a
handsome hotel in the suburbs of the town. With
wonderful speed, a substantial meal was placed
before me, and he made me swallow a tumbler
of excellent sherry before he would allow me to
say a word. Evening set in. We drew our
chairs near the fire, and I told him the sad
history of my country and my own. Never
shall I forget the manly sympathy of that noble
fellow. When I opened my closely buttoned
coat, and showed him the newspaper I wore
next my skin to serve as a shirt, he
complained that he had got an infernal cold in the
head, and commenced poking viciously at the
coals in the grate. After a long pause, he said:

"' Do you know any person in England who
would be likely to be of service to you?'

"I said there was a relative of mine, well off,
but he lived in a very distant town.

"'Well, now,' said he, 'look here: I am
short of money. I have only got five pounds.
Could you make your way to him with that?'

"I told him yes, but that I would rather
take a trifle than put him to inconvenience.

"'Inconvenience be hanged!' he said. 'The
devil! what is my inconvenience to the
makeshift of a newspaper for a shirt?'

"He would not be refused. I had to take the
money, and from that moment all went well with
me. I fell in with a captain of one of the Australian
emigrant ships, who gave me a free passage.
I became a shepherd in New South Wales, saved
money, bought three thousand sheep, began to
lose my health, came to Queensland for change,
went far into the interior, got the post of subordinate
overseer, stayed in that situation until last
week, when fever and ague set in, and I am on
my way to Rockhampton for medical advice."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Frederic Wiener."

"No," I said, "your name is Miska
Vensirdlen."

He started up from his seat, and peered into
my face.

"No," he said, after a pause, "you are not
my benefactor. I should know him if age had
planted as many wrinkles on his face as there
are leaves on this gum-tree. Yet you are like
him. And, now that I think of it, the name of
the commissioner of this district is the same as
his, and you are the commissioner! Great
Heaven! you cannot be he!'

"No," I replied; "I wish I were as good a
man. He was my only brother. He showed me
the letter you sent him before you sailed. You
omitted to mention that you paid him the five
pounds in little more than a year. I saw the
letter of credit."

"Yes, sir, on the Union Bank. But he was
surely not surprised on receiving it?"

"He was not; but we were—our family, I
mean. We had not seen you. Why did you
change your name?"

"All respectable foreigners do so, who look
for a return to their native country. Where is
your brother now, sir?"