Weeks went by, and still Clara said nothing about her little fortune; nor did she place money in the hands of her husband. The small sum he had in possession was daily growing less, and the income from his pencil was far from being sufficient to meet his expenses. To introduce the subject was next to impossible. The young man’s mind shrunk from even the remotest allusion thereto. To dreams of Italy, soon succeeded an anxious desire to turn what ability he possessed to some profitable account in the present, in order that he might retain his independence—something that had always been dear to him. It was barely possible, it occurred to his mind, that Clara had no property in her own right. Were this so, he was indeed in an embarrassed position. Thus matters continued until nearly the last dollar of the young artist’s money was gone, and he began to be so unhappy that it was next to impossible to hide from his wife the troubled state of his feelings. What was he to do? From the thought of revealing to Clara the true nature of his affairs he shrunk away with exquisite pain. The moment that was done his independence was gone, and to retain his independence he was ready to make all other sacrifices. Daily he met her gentle, love-beaming face, and daily saw more and more of her pure, high-minded character, and all the while he felt guilty in her presence, and struggled to hide from her the wild disturbance of his heart. One day, it was about six weeks after their marriage, Clara said to her husband, looking slightly grave, yet smiling as she spoke. She had a letter in her hand. “I’m afraid I am going to bring you more trouble than profit.” Instantly, in spite of his effort to control himself, the blood sprung to the very forehead of the young man. “I shall cheerfully meet all the trouble, and be content with the profit,” he replied, as quickly as he could speak, forcing a smile as he did so, and endeavoring to drive back the tell-tale blood to his heart. Clara looked at her husband earnestly, and seemed to be perplexed at the singular effect produced by her words. “There is a valuable tract of land in Ohio,” said she, “which was left me by my father, that I am in danger of losing. The title deed, it is alleged, is defective.” “Ah! What is the nature of the defect?” Ellison’s voice, schooled under a brief but strong effort into composure, was calm as he asked this question. “It is claimed,” answered Clara, “that a former sale was fraudulent, and therefore illegal, and that it must now revert to certain individuals who have been deprived of their rights.” “Did the property come into your father’s hands by inheritance or purchase?” “He bought the property, and therefore, as far as I am concerned, the title to its possession is an honest one.” “How large is the tract of land?”