The bed of Quentin was one of thorns that night, as he threw himself upon it and yielded to his agony of thought. How vainly, yet how ardently had he loved, how industriously had he laboured to procure her affection. Just when he had achieved the victory over her confiding heart, all that he struggled for was lost--no, not lost--he could bear the thoughts of her death, he could weep over her grave, he could care for the flowers above it, but to think that the prize must be torn from him to be given to another's embrace, there was madness in it. And then van Deg, that rough, haughty, distant man! how unworthy he to possess a jewel of such value, how unfit to care for such a tender plant, how unsuitable his unsocial spirit for the angel who needed some congenial soul to insure her happiness. "Will she not droop and die in that cold atmosphere with him?" he asked himself, as at length exhausted nature yielded to weariness and he fell asleep. The mind, however, yielded not to the fatigue of the body; on the contrary it seemed to have more abundant vitality. Quentin dreamed he was in the street. The bells rang, the people shouted, and gay equipages passed by. It was a day of public rejoicing, for Elzia, the daughter of Algini, was to wed van Deg, the nation's favourite, the celebrated painter. People recounted the scenes he had delineated and lauded the artist to the skies. Quentin trembled and the cold perspiration gathered on his forehead as the nuptial cavalcade approached. They halted at the chapel and the groom conducted the bride all pale and trembling up the aisle to the altar. As the father was about giving his daughter away, Quentin rushed up and seized her; she shrieked and fell dead in his embrace. Her relatives and the priest all gazed in horror! Quentin raised his eyes, saw the misery in their countenances, and as his face fell upon the bosom of his lovely burden he expired--and at that moment awoke. Still the people were before his eyes, fresh in his recollection as if he had beheld the awful scenes by the noonday sun. Impelled by an unaccountable impulse he arose and lighted his lamp, and taking a coal from the extinguished embers in his chimney, he commenced a picture of this scene upon the wall. He drew each face, recoiling in surprise at the perfect resemblance to the individuals. As he finished the outline he beheld in it a faithful transfer of his dream, wanting nothing but colour. A thousand thoughts darted through his brain. He flung himself on his bed, and when he next awoke the rays of the sun had gilded his apartment. His first object was to seek the mural picture, and he trembled lest it had all been a dream, but there it stood as if executed by a magic power. "If this is the result of an effort with charcoal," cried he, striking his breast in a delirium of joy, "what might I not effect with other means? What might be my reward?"