I thought; I might as well write to an acquaintance
I had known some years previously, and
who lived in the Cathedral-close, asking him
to come and pass an hour or two with me.
Accordingly, I rang for the waitress and asked:
"Does Mr. Lute live in Lichfield?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cathedral-close?"

"Yes, sir,"

"Can I send a note to him?"

"Yes, sir."

I wrote the note, saying where I was, and
asking if he would come for an hour or two and
talk over old matters. The note was taken; in
about twenty minutes a person of gentlemanly
appearance, and what might be termed the
advanced middle age, entered the room with my
note in his hand, saying that I had sent him a
letter, he presumed, by mistake, as he did not
know my name. Seeing instantly that he was
not the person I intended to write to, I
apologised, and asked whether there was not
another Mr. Lute living in L——?

"No, there was none other."

"Certainly," I rejoined, "my friend must
have given me his right address, for I had
written to him on other occasions here. He was
a fair young man, he succeeded to an estate in
consequence of his uncle having been killed while
hunting with the Quorn hounds, and he
married about two years since a lady of the name of
Fairbairn."

The stranger very composedly replied, "You
are speaking of Mr. Clyne; he did live in the
Cathedral-close, but he has now gone away."

The stranger was right, and in my surprise
I exclaimed:

"Oh dear, to be sure, that is the name; what
could have made me address you instead? I
really beg your pardon; my writing to you, and
unconsciously guessing your name, is one of the
most extraordinary and unaccountable things I
ever did. Pray pardon me."

He continued very quietly,

"There is no need of apology; it happens
that you are the very person I most wished to
see. You are a painter, and I want you to paint
a portrait of my daughter; can you come to my
house immediately for the purpose?"

I was rather surprised at finding myself known
by him, and the turn matters had taken being
so entirely unexpected, I did not at the moment
feel inclined to undertake the business; I therefore
explained how I was situate, stating that I
had only the next day and Monday at my
disposal. He, however, pressed me so earnestly, that
I arranged to do what I could for him in those
two days, and having put up my baggage, and
arranged other matters, I accompanied him to
his house. During the walk home he scarcely
spoke a word, but his taciturnity seemed only a
continuance of his quiet composure at the inn.
On our arrival he introduced me to his daughter
Maria, and then left the room. Maria Lute was
a fair and a decidedly handsome girl of about
fifteen; her manner was, however, in advance of
her years, and evinced that self-possession, and,
in the favourable sense of the term, that
womanliness, that is only seen at such an early age
in girls that have been left motherless, or from
other causes thrown much on their own
resources.

She had evidently not been informed of the
purpose of my coming, and only knew that I
was to stay there for the night; she therefore
excused herself for a few moments, that she
might give the requisite directions to the
servants as to preparing my room. When she
returned, she told me that I should not see her
father again that evening, the state of his health
having obliged him to retire for the night; but
she hoped I should be able to see him some
time on the morrow. In the mean time, she
hoped I would make myself quite at home, and
call for anything I wanted. She, herself, was
sitting in the drawing-room, but perhaps I
should like to smoke and take something; if so,
there was a fire in the housekeeper's room, and
she would come and sit with me, as she
expected the medical attendant every minute, and
he would probably stay to smoke, and take
something. As the little lady seemed to recommend
this course, I readily complied. I did not
smoke, or take anything, but sat down by the
fire, when she immediately joined me. She
conversed well and readily, and with a command of
language singular in a person so young. Without
being disagreeably inquisitive, or putting
any question to me, she seemed desirous of
learning the business that had brought me to
the house. I told her that her father wished
me to paint either her portrait or that of a sister
of hers, if she had one.

She remained silent and thoughtful for a
moment, and then seemed to comprehend it at
once. She told me that a sister of hers, an only
one, to whom her father was devotedly
attached, died near four months previously;
that her father had never yet recovered
from the shock of her death. He had often
expressed the most earnest wish for a
portrait of her; indeed, it was his one thought,
and she hoped, if something of the kind could
be done, it would improve his health. Here she
hesitated, stammered, and burst into tears.
After a while she continued: "It is no use
hiding from you what you must very soon be
aware of. Papa is insane—he has been so ever
since dear Caroline was buried. He says he is
always seeing dear Caroline, and he is subject
to fearful delusions. The doctor says he cannot
tell how much worse he may be, and that everything
dangerous, like knives or razors, are to be
kept out of his reach. It was necessary you
should not see him again this evening, as he was
unable to converse properly, and I fear the same
may be the case to-morrow; but perhaps you can
stay over Sunday, and I may be able to assist
you in doing what he wishes." I asked whether
they had any materials for making a likeness—
a photograph, a sketch, or anything else for me
to go from. "No, they had nothing." "Could
she describe her clearly?" She thought she
could; and there was a print that was very