much like her, but she had mislaid it. I
mentioned that with such disadvantages, and in
such an absence of materials, I did not anticipate
a satisfactory result. I had painted
portraits under such circumstances, but their
success much depended upon the powers of description
of the persons who were to assist me by
their recollection; in some instances I had
attained a certain amount of success, but in
most the result was quite a failure. The
medical attendant came, but I did not see him. I
learnt, however, that he ordered a strict watch
to be kept on his patient till he came again the
next morning. Seeing the state of things, and
how much the little lady had to attend to, I
retired early to bed. The next morning I heard
that her father was decidedly better; he had
inquired earnestly on waking whether I was
really in the house, and at breakfast-time he
sent down to say that he hoped nothing would
prevent my making an attempt at the portrait
immediately, and he expected to be able to see
me in the course of the day.

Directly after breakfast I set to work, aided
by such description as the sister could give me.
I tried again and again, but without success, or,
indeed, the least prospect of it. The features, I
was told, were separately like, but the expression
was not. I toiled on the greater part of the day
with no better result. The different studies I
made were taken up to the invalid, but the same
answer was always returned—no resemblance.
I had exerted myself to the utmost, and, in fact,
was not a little fatigued by so doing—a
circumstance that the little lady evidently noticed, as
she expressed herself most grateful for the
interest she could see I took in the matter, and
referred the unsuccessful result entirely to her
want of powers of description. She also said it
was so provoking! she had a print—a portrait of
a lady—that was so like, but it had gone—she
had missed it from her book for three weeks
past. It was the more disappointing, as she was
sure it would have been of such great assistance.
I asked if she could tell me who the print
was of, as if I knew, I could easily procure
one in London. She answered, Lady M. A.
Immediately the name was uttered the whole
scene of the lady of the railway carriage
presented itself to me. I had my sketch-book in
my portmanteau up-stairs, and, by a fortunate
chance, fixed in it was the print in question,
with the two pencil sketches. I instantly
brought them down, and showed them to
Maria Lute. She looked at them for a
moment, turned her eyes full upon me, and said
slowly, and with something like fear in her
manner, "Where did you get these?" Then
quicker, and without waiting for my answer,
"Let me take them instantly to papa." She
was away ten minutes, or more; when she
returned, her father came with her. He did not
wait for salutations, but said, in a tone and
manner I had not observed in him before, "I
was right all the time; it was you that I saw
with her, and these sketches are from her, and
from no one else. I value them more than all
my possessions, except this dear child." The
daughter also assured me that the print I had
brought to the house must be the one taken
from the book about three weeks before, in
proof of which she pointed out to me the gum
marks at the back, which exactly corresponded
with those left on the blank leaf. From the
moment the father saw these sketches his mental
health returned.

I was not allowed to touch either of the pencil
drawings in the sketch-book, as it was feared I
might injure them; but an oil picture from them
was commenced immediately, the father sitting
by me hour after hour, directing my touches,
conversing rationally, and indeed cheerfully,
while he did so. He avoided direct reference
to his delusions, but from time to time led the
conversation to the manner in which I had
originally obtained the sketches. The doctor
came in the evening, and, after extolling the
particular treatment he had adopted, pronounced
his patient decidedly, and he believed permanently,
improved.

The next day being Sunday, we all went to
church. The father, for the first time since his
bereavement. During a walk which he took with
me after luncheon, he again approached the
subject of the sketches, and after some seeming
hesitation as to whether he should confide in me or
not, said, "Your writing to me by name, from
the inn at L——, was one of those
inexplicable circumstances that I suppose it is
impossible to clear up. I knew you, however,
directly I saw you; when those about me
considered that my intellect was disordered, and
that I spoke incoherently, it was only because I
saw things that they did not. Since her death,
I know, with a certainty that nothing will ever
disturb, that at different times I have been in
the actual and visible presence of my dear
daughter that is gone—oftener, indeed, just
after her death than latterly. Of the many times
that this has occurred, I distinctly remember
once seeing her in a railway carriage, speaking
to a person seated opposite; who that person
was I could not ascertain, as my position seemed
to be immediately behind him. I next saw her
at a dinner-table, with others, and amongst those
others unquestionably I saw yourself. I afterwards
learnt that at that time I was considered
to be in one of my longest and most violent
paroxysms, as I continued to see her speaking
to you, in the midst of a large assembly, for
some hours. Again I saw her, standing by your
side, while you were engaged in either writing
or drawing. I saw her once again afterwards,
but the next time I saw yourself was in the inn
parlour."

The picture was proceeded with the next day,
and on the day after the face was completed, and
I afterwards brought it with me to London to
finish.

I have often seen Mr. L. since that period;
his health is perfectly re-established, and his
mannner and conversation are as cheerful as can
be expected within a few years of so great a
bereavement.