As the young man spoke, Ellison gathered up his brushes, and taking his pallet, said, while his eyes brightened,
“There, Liston! stand just in that light.”
“No, I’ll do no such thing,” replied Liston, moving from his position. “You must paint no more to-day. If you will not go out and breathe the pure air, you must go to bed and let me send you a physician.”
“I’m not sick—I’m only in despair.”
The friend took him by the arm and tried to force him away from his easel; as he did so, a deathly paleness overspread the face of the young artist, and he fell back insensible. As soon as the first few moments of surprise and confusion had passed, Liston laid the inanimate body which he had caught in his arms on the floor, and went for assistance. After various efforts at restoration had been used by the physician who was summoned, but without effect, the body of Ellison was removed to his lodgings, and placed in bed, where it remained for some hours before a reaction of the exhausted vital system took place. Liston, who had become much attached to the young artist for his many excellent qualities, never left his side until his pulses again commenced their feeble play, and then only for a few moments at a time. He was deeply pained to perceive that the fine intellect of Ellison did not reanimate as life again flowed along his veins. That had been overtasked, and was, for the time being, paralyzed.
Day after day went by, and the bodily health of Ellison slowly improved; but his mind continued to wander. Much to the surprise of Liston, in these wanderings he often spoke of one to whom he applied the tenderest name by which man can call a woman, and said that he would soon return to her.
“Is our dear little Ella living yet?” he asked one day, looking earnestly at Liston, his large, bright eyes beaming with affection.
“Who is Ella?” asked Liston.
The question appeared to react upon his state of mind. He became grave and silent for some moments.
“I thought Clara was here,” said he, after awhile, in a more serious voice.