d began to write.

Roundjacket looked at him for a moment in silence, and then, with
an expression of affection and pity, which made his grotesque face
absolutely handsome, muttered something to himself, and followed
Verty's example.

When Roundjacket commenced writing, he did so with the regularity
and accuracy of a machine which is set in motion by the turning of
a crank, and goes on until it is stopped. This was the case on the
present occasion, and Verty seemed as earnestly engaged in his own
particular task. But appearances are deceptive--Indian nature will not
take the curb like Anglo-Saxon--and a glance over Verty's shoulders
will reveal the species of occupation which he became engaged in after
finishing ten lines of the law paper.

He was tracing with melancholy interest a picture upon the sheet
beneath his pen; and this was a lovely little design of a young girl,
with smiling lips, kind, tender eyes, and cheeks which were round and
beautiful with mirth. With a stroke of the pen Verty added the waving
hair, brushed back _a la Pompadour_ the foam of lace around the neck,
and the golden drop in the little ear. Redbud looked at you from the
paper, with her modest eyes and smiles--and for a moment Verty gazed
at the creation of his pencil, sighing mournfully.

Then, with a deeper sigh than before, he drew beneath this another
sketch--the same head, but very different. The eyes now were cold
and half closed--the lips were close together, and seemed almost
disdainful--and as the gentle bending forward in the first design was
full of pleasant _abandon_ and graceful kindness, so the head in the
present sketch had that erect and frigid carriage which indicates
displeasure.

Verty covered his eyes with his hand, and leaning down upon the desk,
was silent and motionless, except that a stifled sigh would at times
issue from his lips, a sad heaving of his breast indicate the nature
of his thoughts.

Longears rose, and coming to his master, wagged his tail, and asked,
with his mute but intelligent glance, what had happened.

Verty felt the dog lick his hand, and rose from his recumbent posture.

"Yes, yes, Longears," he murmured, "I can't help showing it--even you
know that I am not happy."

And with listless hands he took up the old violin which lay upon
his desk and touched the strings. The sound died away in trembling
waves--Roundjacket continued writing.

Verty, without appearing to be conscious of what he w