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. 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."