Entering an apartment from which the light and pure atmosphere of heaven seemed banished, while the howls of the wretched maniacs (caged, like so many wild beasts, in their dreary cells, with naught upon which to rest their weary, lacerated limbs, but a heap of filthy straw,) struck upon the ear like the shrieks of the lost, causing the warm life-blood to recede from the heart and curdle in the veins. Mr. Norton, feeling the sudden grasp of Ellen, and noting her pallid countenance, said hurriedly— “My dear, we had better not proceed; let us turn back.” “Oh, no! dear uncle,” she exclaimed, making an effort at composure, “do not think of me, it was but a momentary weakness.” As they proceeded from cell to cell, Ellen’s kind tone and pleasant smile, seemed to touch some hidden spring in the heart of these wretched beings, causing the jarring discordant strings to vibrate in momentary harmony. Each strove to withdraw her from the other, to listen to his tale of wo or imagined felicity. Some insisted that she was a being of superior order, sent to release them from their horrible confinement—until at last, overcome by her feelings, she leant for support against the frame of a half-open door that led to an inner apartment, lost in thought, and taking no cognizance of what passed around her. From this abstraction she was aroused, by—“Madam, he has been dying these two days. I do not think he can last over to-night.” “Who dying?” said Ellen, with a shudder, observing at the same time the coarse, hard-hearted looking female that addressed her. “I thought you were looking at that gentleman,” pointing to a low cot. “Yes, as I said, he has been dying these two days; and a hard time we’ve had of it with his endless screeching and screaming for somebody to pray for him! But hard praying it would take, in my opinion, to do much good for the likes o’ him! Why, madam, you should have heard his raving—it would have made your hair stand on end!” Ellen approached the bed. Before her lay, though pale and motionless as in the cold embrace of death, a being of God-like impress. His jetty locks flung from his upturned face, fell in loose masses on his pillow, displaying a brow which bore the stamp of high and lofty intellect: while drooping lashes of the same dark hue, pressing so heavily on his marble cheek, contrasted strangely with the deathly pallor of his chiseled features, on which were marked deep furrows—not such as wrought by either time or care, but mighty convulsions of the soul! * * * * *