“It has cost me many hours of hard labor,” said the artist, wearily, as he laid aside his pallet for a moment, and passed his hand across his brow. “I never felt so great an interest in a picture before; and now two days’ labor, I think, will complete it. It needs but a few touches.” As he spoke, Mary saw an unnatural flush upon his cheek, and that his eye glowed with an unusual brilliancy. She was alarmed. “Do, Arthur, for my sake, lie down and rest a while. You do not look well, and sleep will refresh you. You say two days will finish it, and you have a week before you.” “I believe I will lie down for a few minutes,” said Arthur; “for my head aches strangely, and I feel weary.” He laid down; but it did not refresh him. In a little while, he became feverish, so that he could not leave his bed. His wife went out to summon a physician. All her hopes centred in Arthur; and the thought that he was sick, that he was in danger, quickened her step. She saw nothing that was going on around her, so intent was she on her object, till suddenly some one touched her familiarly on the shoulder. She looked around, and saw by her side the companion whom she had encountered at the pawnbroker’s. “I am happy to meet you once more,” said he; “but you seem in haste.” “Yes,” said she, hurriedly; “my husband has been suddenly taken sick, and I am in pursuit of a physician.” “Let me relieve you of that duty. If you will return to your husband, who doubtless needs your presence, I will summon a physician. I know your lodgings, and will return with medical assistance immediately.” Mrs. Elliott gratefully accepted this proffer of service, for she had felt much solicitude. When she returned, she found her husband seized with a fit of delirium, in which he uttered incoherent sentences, all of which had some connection with his picture and the approaching exhibition. In a few minutes, the stranger returned with a physician. To the anxious inquiries of Mrs. Elliott, the doctor replied,— “Your husband is suffering from the excitement and fatigue consequent upon too severe mental exertion. This has thrown him into a fever, from which it will take time to recover.” After leaving directions, he withdrew, promising to repeat his visit the next day. “How much my poor husband will be disappointed!” Mrs. Elliott could not help exclaiming. “He must now abandon the hope of presenting his picture at the exhibition.” “What!” said her visitor, with interest, “is your husband an artist?” In reply, Mrs. Elliott led him to a corner of the room, and withdrew the screen that concealed the painting. He gazed upon it with deep admiration for some minutes, and then said, with enthusiasm,— “Ah! this is indeed beautiful!” “It is nearly completed,” said the artist’s wife; “but that will be of no service to us now.” And she let fall the screen, and sighed heavily. A sudden idea struck the visitor.