“His health has not been good for some time,” was the young man’s reply. “He has tied himself down in his studio too long, and worked with too intent a purpose, until he has wasted his body as you see. A few days ago, nature sank exhausted under burdens too heavy for her to bear. But your presence and your care will restore him.”
And Liston was right in his prediction. Ellison soon after sank away into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours. When he awoke, though weak almost as an infant, he was in his right mind.
——
CHAPTER X.
A week subsequent to Clara’s arrival in Venice, whither she had come after a month’s search in Paris, Naples, Florence and Rome, for her husband, she sat by the bed-side of Alfred, now rapidly recovering, while Ella, their beautiful child, over a year old, was sleeping in her arms.
“I know it would have been better, Clara, far better,” said the invalid, replying to a remark which his wife had made. “But the disasters of that western business put me half beside myself. Ah me! how much happier we would have been if your fortune had been like my own—nothing.”
A cloud flitted over the brow of Clara as he made this last remark. She sighed faintly, and was silent.
“I am weak and foolish on this subject,” said he, after a few moments. “But you understand why it is so. The weight of a feather will hurt an inflamed wound.”
Clara looked at her husband half reproachfully, and then changed the subject.
A year longer Ellison remained in Italy, devoting his time to study and practice in the higher schools of art, and then turned his face homeward, taking with him about twenty pictures, half of which were his own compositions, and all of a high order of merit.