In half an hour the Conservatory was in a state of horror. The terrible news had rapidly spread from mouth to mouth. The ladies cried, fainted, or went into hysterics. The following day the entire Conservatory was at the funeral of Mitia Spiridonoff. His playfellows carried the small coffin, followed by his grief-stricken mother and little sisters. Anton Egoritsch alone was not there. They had been compelled to send him to the asylum. He had broken into ravings and cursings by Mitia’s coffin. A WORK OF ART AND THE SLANDERER BY ANTON PAVLOVITCH CHEKHOV [Illustration] _Chekhov, who has been called the Russian De Maupassant, was born of humble parents in the suburbs of Moscow in 1860, and died of consumption in 1904. Though he received the degree of M.D., he never practised medicine. His was a nature far more poetical than that of De Maupassant, and it would perhaps be nearer right to call him a Russian Stevenson, for, like him, he had a lifelong struggle against illness, and, like him, illness and suffering mellowed and sweetened his character. Chekhov was an artist to his finger-tips, in a sense and to a degree beyond that of any of his Russian predecessors._ [Illustration] A WORK OF ART THE STORY OF A GIFT BY ANTON CHEKHOV Translated by Archibald J. Wolfe. Copyright, 1905, by the Short Stories Co., Limited. Alexander Smirnoff, the only son of his mother, holding in his hand some object carefully wrapped in a newspaper, an angelic smile on his youthful face, entered the consulting-room of Dr. Koshelkoff. “Ah, dear youth!” exclaimed the doctor, “how are you? What is the good news?” Confused and excited, the young man replied: “Doctor, my mother is sending her regards--I am her only son, you know--You saved my life. Your skill--We hardly know how to thank you!” “Say no more, dear boy!” said the doctor, beaming with delight. “I have only done my duty. Anybody else would have done the same.” “I am the only son of my mother. We are poor, and, of course, can not repay you for your labors as you have deserved--and we feel it deeply. At the same time my mother--I am her only son, doctor--my mother humbly begs you to accept as a token of our gratitude a little statuette she values very highly. It is a piece of antique bronze, and a rare work of art.” “My good fellow--” commenced the physician. “No, doctor, you must not refuse,” continued Alexander, unfolding his parcel. “You will deeply offend mother and myself, too. It is a little beauty. A rare antique. We have kept it in memory of father, who was a dealer in antique bronzes. My mother and myself continue the business.”