The Englishman, with a grand oath, seized
the Comte's hand in both his own, and shook
it heartily; then scrambling up his paraphanalia
of war, spoke a hurried farewell, and
disappeared down the stairs.

The grey of the morning saw Milor in full
evening costume, pacing the Graben with
hurried steps, watching with anxious eyes the
shop front where his beloved was wont to
hang. He saw her carried out like a shutter
from the house, and duly suspended on the
appointed hook. She had lost none of her
charms, and he stood with arms folded upon
his breast, entranced for awhile before the
figure of the valiant maiden.

"Herr Wechsel," said he abruptly, as he
entered the shop; "Le Comte de Barbebiche
has ceded his claim to me. I repeat my offer
for your Joan of Arc—decide at once, for I
am in a hurry."

It certainly does appear surprising that
Herr Wechsel did not close in with the offer
at once; perhaps he really had an affection
for his picture; perhaps he thought to improve
the bargain; or, more probably, looking upon
his strange customer as so undoubtedly mad,
as to entertain serious fears as to his ever
receiving the money. Certain it is, that he
respectfully declined to sell.

"You refuse!" shouted Milor, striking his
clenched fist upon the counter; "then, by
Jove! I'll—but never mind!" and he strode
into the street.

The dusk of the evening saw Milor in the
dress of a porter, pacing the Graben with a
steady step. He halted in front of his cherished
Joan; with the utmost coolness and deliberation
unhooked the painting from its nail,
and placing it carefully, and with the air of a
workman, upon his shoulder, stalked away
with his precious burden.

Imagine the consternation of Herr Wechsel
upon the discovery of his loss. His pride,
his delight, the chief ornament of his shop
was gone; and, moreover, he had lost his
money. But his sorrow was changed into
surprise, and his half-tearful eyes twinkled
with satisfaction as he read the following
epistle, delivered into his hands within an
hour after the occurrence:—

"Sir,—You will find placed to your credit in the
Imperial Bank of Vienna the sum of five thousand
pounds, the amount proffered for your Joan of Arc.'
Your obstinacy has driven me into the commission of a
misdemeanor. God forgive you. But I have kept my word.

"I am already beyond your reach, and you will
search in vain for my trace. In consideration for your
feelings and to cause you as little annoyance as
possible, I have placed my Joan of Arc into the hands of
a skilful artist; and I trust to forward you as accurate
a copy as can be made.

"Yours, MOUNTPLEASANT."

And Milor kept his word, mein Lieber,
and the copy hangs, Am Graben, to this day
in the place of the original. The original
shines among the paintings in the splendid
collection of Milor at Mountpleasant Castle.

I will not pretend to say, concluded
Vater Böhm, reloading his pipe, that the
English have any taste, but they certainly
have a strange passion for pictures; and, let
them once get an idea into their heads, they
are the most obstinate people in the world
in the pursuit of it.

THE WIND.

THE wind went forth o'er land and sea,
Loud and free;
Foaming waves leapt up to meet it,
Stately pines bow'd down to greet it,
While the wailing sea,
And the forest's murmured sigh
Joined the cry,
Of the wind that swept o'er land and sea.

The wind that blew upon the sea
Fierce and free,
Cast the bark upon the shore,
Whence it sail'd the night before
Full of hope and glee;
And the cry of pain and death
Was but a breath,
Through the wind that roar'd upon the sea.

The wind was whispering on the lea
Tenderly;
But the white rose felt it pass,
And the fragile stalks of grass
Shook with fear to see
All her trembling petals shed,
As it fled,
So gently by,—the wind upon the lea.

Blow, thou wind, upon the sea
Fierce and free,
And a gentler message send,
Where frail flowers and grasses bend,
On the sunny lea;
For thy bidding still is one,
Be it done
In tenderness or wrath, on land or sea!

AUSTRALIAN CARRIERS.

I AM one of a strong body of many
hundred carriers over Keilor plains, towards the
diggings of Victoria, whose two-horse drays
and wagons do the work that may, some day, be
done by the Melbourne and Mount Alexander
Railway. On us depend some eighty thousand
diggers, whom we serve by carrying their
houses of canvas, wood, or iron, their clothes,
made of all sorts of materials, their food,
their tools, their simple machinery,
sometimes themselves. We form an endless chain
between the city and the diggings—one side
continually going up full, and the other
coming down empty. Our work never stops.
One of us rarely stays two nights in the same
place, and only when in town sleeps under a
roof, or on a bed. Wandering thus
incessantly, we encounter, of course, many
adventures. Each trip has a story of its
own; but what I wish now to do is to give
only a general idea of our mode of life. It