“What was it like, Ralph?  O! how strange it all seems to me.”

“Like? sister mine; like dew to the parched earth; strength to the languished; light unto darkness.  What was it like?  Mortal cannot compare it to anything under the heavens.  It was as though my being soared on downy clouds-the old passing out, weariness falling as I ascended, and all sense of pain laid aside as one would a garment too heavy to be worn.  I knew I slept.  I was inspired with currents of a new life.  I was lulled by undulating waves of light; each motion giving deeper rest, followed by a delicious sense of enjoyment without demand of action; a balancing of all the being.  O! rest, such rest, comes to man but once in a lifetime.  But where is the fair one to whom I am so much indebted for all this?” He glanced around the room.

“Gone.  She left just as you were waking.  But tell me, Ralph, is it the mesmeric sleep that has so strengthened you, and with which you are so charmed?”

“It must be.  What wondrous power that being has; Marion, I am as strong and well as ever; look at me, and see if my appearance does not verify my assertion.”

She looked and believed.  The past hour had developed a wonder greater than could be found among all the works of art in that great city; for Christ, the Lord, had been there and disease had fled.

Ralph and Marion met the strangers quite often, and passed many happy hours in her society.  Marion rallied her brother on his long tarry at Frankfort, at which he smiled, saying, “I cannot go while she remains.”  No more was said concerning his departure, it being her pleasure to go or stay, as he wished.

One bright morning, they sat under the trees.  Ralph was sketching, while Marion and the young lady who had so entranced him, were amusing themselves with some portraits which he had drawn a long time previous, when a servant delivered a letter to Marion.  She opened it eagerly, and said, “It’s from mother, Ralph, and we must meet her in Paris by the twentieth; it’s now the seventh.”

A look of disappointment passed over his face, which was soon chased away by smiles, at the words of their companion who said: 

“How singular.  Father and myself are going there.  We leave to-morrow.”

Marion excused herself, and ran to her room to answer her mother’s letter.  The two thus left alone, sat silent for some time, until Ralph broke the calm with these words, “I long to know the name of one who has so long benefited me.  I only know you as Miss Lyman.  I should like to treasure your christian name, which I am sure is bright, like your nature.”

“My surname is Wyman, not Lyman, and my christian name, Dawn.”

“How strange!  How beautiful!” almost involuntarily exclaimed Ralph.

“Will you allow me, Dawn,” he said, after a brief silence, “to sketch your profile?”

“Certainly, when will you do it?”