Mrs. Brahan rang for water; but I did not faint.

"I have taken a long walk this morning," I said, "and your rooms are
warm. I feel better, now. And this house belonged to the artist? I feel
interested in his story."

"I wish Mr. Brahan were here; but I will tell you all I recollect. It
was a long time ago; and what we hear from others of individuals in whom
we have no personal interest, is soon forgotten. Do you really feel
better? Well, I believe St. James, the artist, was a highly
accomplished, gifted man. He was married to a beautiful young wife, and
I think had one child. Of course he was supremely happy. It seems he was
called away from home very suddenly, was gone a few months, and when he
returned, he found his wife and child fled, and a stranger claiming her
name and place. I never heard this mystery explained; but it is said,
she disappeared as suddenly as she came, while he sought by every means
to recover his lost treasure, but in vain. His reason at one time
forsook him, and his health declined. At length, unable to remain where
every thing reminded him of his departed happiness, he resolved to leave
the country and go to foreign climes. Mr. Brahan, who wished to purchase
at that time, was pleased with the house,--bought it, and brought me
here, a bride. He has altered and improved it a great deal, but many
things remain just as they were. You seem interested. There is something
mysterious and romantic connected with it. Oh! here is Mr. Brahan
himself; he can relate it far better than I can."

After the usual courtesies of meeting, she resumed the subject, and told
her husband how much interested I was in the history of the unfortunate
artist.

"Ah yes!" cried he; "poor fellow!--he was sore beset. Two women claimed
him as wives,--and he lost both. I never heard a clear account of this
part of his life; for when I knew him, he was just emerging from
insanity, and it was supposed his mind was still clouded. He was very
reserved on the subject of his personal misfortunes. I only know it was
the loss of the wife whom he acknowledged that unsettled his reason. He
was a magnificent looking fellow,--full of genius and feeling. He told
me he was going to Italy,--and very likely he died of a broken heart,
beneath its sunny and genial skies. He was a fine artist. That picture
has inspiration in it. Look at the reflection of the moon in the water.
How tremulous it is! You can almost see the silver rippling beneath