There was one person in that institution to whom Catharine warmly attached herself at first sight. She was a middle-aged woman, possessed of a wild sort of beauty, which might have been loveliness in youth, and was now wonderfully picturesque. She had been a long time insane; sometimes in a madhouse, violent and refractory; sometimes in private institutions, always especially cared for, as the rich provide for their unfortunates; but never, until now, surrounded with home-like elegances, and attentions so delicate, that they did not seem to be watchful. This woman occupied a little parlor and bedroom close to that in which Catharine slept. She was under no visible restraint, for the inmates only recognized their keepers as servants, and felt complimented by their devoted attention. One day, in passing Catharine’s door, she saw her bending over the table, toiling patiently over a drawing, which she was forced to work out, with no help save that of her own genius. Something, either in her attitude or countenance, arrested the woman, who turned, and, after peering into the room to make sure that no one else was there, stole in so noiselessly that Catharine was unconscious of her presence, until she felt her breath floating across her cheek. “Get up, that’s all wrong.” Catharine started from her chair in some alarm. The woman sat down, seized upon a pencil, and went to work with the spirit and dash of an artist. That which Catharine had been striving to accomplish, she achieved with a few movements of the hand, creating a perspective here, a middle distance there, and livening up the foreground with a figure or two that fairly startled the girl, as she saw them grow into a _vraisemblance_ of humanity under her gaze. All at once, the woman looked up, and Catharine remarked the wonderful beauty of her eyes, now widening with pleasure. “_He_ stood exactly so, that night,” she said, “touching one of the figures with her pencil. I—no, I’m not here. It is that terrible woman. How dare you let her come near him?” She seized the paper between her hands, tore it fiercely through the middle, and flung it down, quivering, as if she had just dashed a serpent from her. When Catharine stooped to pick up the fragments, her excitement grew intense; she stamped her foot down upon the paper, defied the girl with her great burning eyes, and dashed out of the room. At first this scene frightened Catharine, but in the end it gave her a hopeful idea. This woman had the knowledge which she was toiling for. Might it not be guided for their mutual benefit? She consulted with Mrs. Barr, and resolved to lure the maniac into an occupation which might bring her dormant faculties into healthy action.