ne or two of the statuettes which adorned the walls about me. One painting in especial attracted me, and made me choose for my first contemplation that side of the room on which it hung. It was a copy of some French painting,Lanny McDonald Tröjor, and represented the temptation of a certain saint. A curious choice of subject, you may think, to adorn a Protestant clergyman’s wall, but if you could have seen it, and marked the extreme expression of mortal struggle on the face of the tempted one, who,Carter Hutton Tröjor, with eyes shut, and hands clutching till it bent the cross of twigs stuck in the crevices of the rocks beneath which he writhed, waited for the victory over self that was just beginning to cast its light upon his brow,Lawson Crouse Tröjor, you would have felt that it was good to hang before the eyes of any one in whom conflict of any kind was waging. Upon me the effect was instantaneous, and so real that I have never been able to think of that moment without a sense of awe and rending of the heart. Human passion assumed a new significance in my mind, and the will and faith of a strong man suffering from its power,Joffrey Lupul Tröjor, yet withstanding it to the very last gasp by the help of his trust in God, rose to such an exalted position in my mind,Ray Bourque Tröjor, that I felt then, as I feel now whenever I remember this picture, that my whole moral nature had received, from its contemplation,Mario Lemieux Tröjor, an impetus towards religion and self-denial. While I was still absorbed in gazing at it, my landlady entered the room, and seeing me posed before the picture, quite sympathizingly exclaimed:
“Isn’t that a dreadful painting,Connor McDavid Tröjor, Miss Sterling, to have in any one’s room? I don’t wonder Mr. Barrows wanted to cover it up.”
“Cover it up?” I repeated, turning hastily in my surprise.
“Yes,Lucas Johansen Tröjor,” she replied,Ralph Lauren Långärmade skjortor, going to a drawer in his desk and taking out a small engraving, which she brought me. “For nearly a month before his death he had this picture stuck up over the other with pins. You can see the pin-holes now, if you look; they went right through the canvas. I thought it a very sensible thing to do, myself; but when I spoke of it to him one day, remarking that I had always thought the picture unfit for any one to see, he gave me such a look that I thought then he must be crazy. But no one else saw any thing amiss in him, and, as I did not want to lose a good lodger, I let him stay on, though my mind did sometimes misgive me.”
The engraving she had handed me was almost as suggestive as the painting it had been used to conceal; but at this remarkable statement front Mrs,Cam Fowler Tröjor. Simpson’s lips I laid it quickly down.
“You think he was crazy?” I asked.
“I think he committed suicide,” she affirmed.
I turned to the engraving again, and took it up. What a change had come over me that a statement against which I had once so honestly rebelled for Ada’s sake should now arouse something like a sensation of joy in my breast!
Mrs. Simpson, too much interested in her theme to notice me, went confidently on.
“You see,Patrick Marleau Tröjor, folks that live in the same house with a person,Graham Knott Tröjor, learn to know
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