"Last winter, after the fire, there was one man in this city, John W. Mackay, who gave $150,000 to the poor. It was a magnificent act, and was as grandly and gently performed as such an act could be. No one would ever have known it, had not the good priest who distributed the most of it, one day, mentioned the splendid fact. That man will receive his reward here, and hereafter, for it was a royal charity. But he has $30,000,000 to draw against, while, when Billie in the wilderness gave up his bed and his food, he not only had not a cent to draw against, but he had not a reasonably well-defined hope. "When at last the roll-call of the real royal men of this world shall be sounded, if any of you chance to be there, you will hear, close up to the head of the list, the name of Billie Smith, and when it shall be pronounced, if you listen, you will hear a very soft but dulcet refrain trembling along the harps and a murmur among the emerald arches that will sound like the beating of the wings of innumerable doves." "That was a good mon, surely. Did he do well with his mine?" asked Corrigan. "No," answered Miller. "It was but a little deposit, and was quickly worked out. He scuffled along until the purchase of the Eureka Con. in the spring, then went to work there for a few months, then came here, and a day or two after arriving, was shot dead by the ruffian Perkins. "He was shot through the brain, and people tell me he was so quickly transfixed that in his coffin the old sunny smile was still upon his face. I don't believe that, though. I believe the smile came when, as the light went out here, he saw the dawn and felt the hand clasps on the other side. "By the way, there was a man here who knew him, and who wrote something with the thought of poor Billie in his mind while he was writing." At this Miller arose and went to his carpet-sack, opened it and drew out a paper. Then handing it to Harding, he said: "Harding, you read better than I do, read it for us all." Harding took the paper and read as follows: ERNEST FAITHFUL. 'Twas the soul of Ernest Faithful Loosed from its home of clay-- Its mission on earth completed, To the judgment passed away. 'Twas the soul of Ernest Faithful Stood at the bar above, Where the deeds of men are passed upon In justice, but in love. And an angel questioned Faithful Of the life just passed on earth! What could he plead of virtue, What could he count of worth. And the soul of Ernest Faithful Trembled in sore dismay; And from the judgment angel's gaze Shuddering, turned away. For memory came and whispered How worldly was that life; Unfairly plotting, sometimes, In anger and in strife; For a selfish end essaying To treasures win or fame, And the soul of Ernest cowered 'neath The angel's eye of flame.