rahan, coming near us. "What started so horrible
a theme?"

"Mr. Linwood's perfections," said the young lady, with a gay smile.

"He has one great fault," observed Mrs. Brahan; "he keeps you too close
a prisoner, my dear. I fear he is very selfish. Tell him so from me; for
he must not expect to monopolize a jewel formed to adorn and beautify
the world."

She spoke sportively, benignantly, without knowing the deep truth of her
words. She knew that my husband sought retirement; that I seldom went
abroad without him. But she knew not, dreamed not, of the strength of
the master-passion that governed his actions.

Gradually the company dispersed. As I came so late, I remained a little
behind the rest, attracted by a painting in the back parlor. I suppose I
inherited from my father a love of the fine arts; for I never could pass
a statue or a picture without pausing to gaze upon it.

This represented a rocky battlement, rising in the midst of the deep
blue sea. The silvery glimmer of moonlight shone on the rippling waves;
moonlight breaking through dark clouds,--producing the most dazzling
contrast of light and shade. A large vessel, in full sail, glided along
in the gloom of the shadows; a little skiff floated on the
white-crested, sparkling, shining tide. The flag of our country waved
from the rocky tower. I seemed gazing on a familiar scene. Those wave
washed battlements; that floating banner; the figures of soldiers
marching on the ramparts, with folded arms and measured tread,--all
appeared like the embodiment of a dream.

"What does this represent?" I asked.

"Fortress Monroe, on Chesapeake Bay."

"I thought so. Who was the artist?"

"I think his name was St. James. It is on the picture, near the frame.
Yes,--Henry Gabriel St. James. What a beautiful name! Poor fellow!--I
believe he had a sad fate! Mr. Brahan could tell you something of his
history. He purchased this house of him seventeen years ago. What is the
matter, Mrs. Linwood?"

I sank on the nearest seat, incapable of supporting myself. I was in the
house where I was born,--where my mother passed the brief period of her
wedded happiness; whence she was driven, a wronged, despairing woman,
with me, an unconscious infant, in her arms. It was my father's glowing
sketch on which I was gazing,--that father whom I had so recently
met,--a criminal, evading the demands of justice; a man who had lost all
his original brightness,--a being of sin and misery.