It was a year since the young artist had deserted his home and the dear ones who nestled there. Twelve weary months had passed. He had been in Paris, Dresden, Rome, Florence, and now he was in Venice; wasted almost to a shadow; but still he sat with pencil or pallet in hand, striving to catch the wonderful grace, or to attain the masterly effect of color that he almost worshiped in those whose names were synonymous with all that was grand and beautiful in art. But all that he had yet achieved was so far below what was around him, that he was in despair.

He had thrown his brushes and pallet upon the floor, and was sitting in an attitude of despondency before his easel, upon which was a half-finished head after Raphael, when a young English artist, with whom he had made an acquaintance, entered his studio.

“You are ill, Marston,” (it was by this name that Ellison passed in Italy,) said the visiter, in a voice of concern.

“I am in despair,” replied Ellison.

“At what?”

“I cannot paint.”

“If I could produce flesh like that on the canvas before you, I would go home to-morrow.”

“It looks like any thing but flesh to me.”

“Come, Marston,” said the other, taking the hand of the young man, “an hour upon the water will give your eyes a better vision. But how your hand burns! And there is a flush in your cheeks. You have fever!”

As the young man spoke, Ellison gathered up his brushes, and taking his pallet, said, while his eyes brightened,

“There, Liston! stand just in that light.”

“No, I’ll do no such thing,” replied Liston, moving from his position. “You must paint no more to-day. If you will not go out and breathe the pure air, you must go to bed and let me send you a physician.”

“I’m not sick—I’m only in despair.”

The friend took him by the arm and tried to force him away from his easel; as he did so, a deathly paleness overspread the face of the young artist, and he fell back insensible. As soon as the first few moments of surprise and confusion had passed, Liston laid the inanimate body which he had caught in his arms on the floor, and went for assistance. After various efforts at restoration had been used by the physician who was summoned, but without effect, the body of Ellison was removed to his lodgings, and placed in bed, where it remained for some hours before a reaction of the exhausted vital system took place. Liston, who had become much attached to the young artist for his many excellent qualities, never left his side until his pulses again commenced their feeble play, and then only for a few moments at a time. He was deeply pained to perceive that the fine intellect of Ellison did not reanimate as life again flowed along his veins. That had been overtasked, and was, for the time being, paralyzed.

Day after day went by, and the bodily health of Ellison slowly improved; but his mind continued to wander. Much to the surprise of Liston, in these wanderings he often spoke of one to whom he applied the tenderest name by which man can call a woman, and said that he would soon return to her.

“Is our dear little Ella living yet?” he asked one day, looking earnestly at Liston, his large, bright eyes beaming with affection.

“Who is Ella?” asked Liston.

The question appeared to react upon his state of mind. He became grave and silent for some moments.

“I thought Clara was here,” said he, after awhile, in a more serious voice.

“Who is Clara?”

This question threw him back again into silence, and he lay for more than a minute with his eyes closed. Then he opened them quickly, and glanced around with eager expectation, half rising as he did so from his pillow. A sigh quivered through his white lips as he sunk back, and said, in a sad voice,

“I thought she was here.”

For some time he lay with closed eyes, and his hands clasped across his bosom. Then looking up again, he asked,

“Hasn’t she come yet? It is time she was here.”

Bending toward the door, he listened attentively.

“She must be here soon.”

“Something has delayed her,” said Liston, falling in with the humor of the sick man. “Lie down again and try to sleep. Perhaps she will be here when you awake.”

“Hark!” said Ellison.

Liston bent his ear for a moment or two. Then the sound of feet moving along one of the distant passages was faintly heard.

“She is coming!” exclaimed Ellison, in a voice of exultation.

The footsteps approached rapidly. They were at hand; and then the door flew open and a woman entered.

“My husband!” fell from her lips as she sprang forward and caught Ellison in her arms, who, sobbing like a child, nestled helplessly, but with the gladness of a half unconscious babe, upon her bosom.

Liston gazed on this scene in profound amazement. He expected every moment to see the life-blood again thrown back upon the heart of his sick friend, and his eyes closed once more in dark insensibility. But it was not so. The meeting produced no disastrous shock.

“I have been looking for you to come,” said Ellison, lifting his head from the bosom of his wife, after he was a little composed, and gazing into her face.

A shadow fell upon the countenance of Clara, and she turned her eyes upon Liston with a look of troubled inquiry.

“It is true, as he says,” remarked Liston, perceiving what was in her mind. “He spoke of you, and said you were coming ere I could hear the sound of your approaching footsteps.”

“But I heard them,” said Ellison, with a smile that lit up his whole countenance. “And I knew that you were here.”

It was now plain to Clara that her husband’s mind had lost its balance.

“Has he been sick long?” she asked of Liston.

“His health has not been good for some time,” was the young man’s reply. “He has tied himself down in his studio too long, and worked with too intent a purpose, until he has wasted his body as you see. A few days ago, nature sank exhausted under burdens too heavy for her to bear. But your presence and your care will restore him.”

And Liston was right in his prediction. Ellison soon after sank away into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours. When he awoke, though weak almost as an infant, he was in his right mind.

——