as doing, took
the bow of the violin, and placing the instrument upon his shoulder,
leaned his ear down to it, and drew the hair over the strings. A long,
sad monotone floated through the room.

Roundjacket wrote on.

Verty, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, his lips sorrowfully listless,
his frame drooping more and more, began to play a low, sad air, which
sounded like a sigh.

Roundjacket raised his head, and looked at the musician.

Verty leaned more and more upon his instrument, listening to it as
to some one speaking to him, his eyes closed, his bosom heaving, his
under lip compressed sorrowfully as he dreamed.

Roundjacket was just about to call upon Verty to cease his savage and
outrageous conduct, or Mr. Rushton, who was in the other room, would
soon issue forth and revenge such a dreadful violation of law office
propriety, when the door of that gentleman's sanctum opened, and he
appeared upon the threshold.

But far from bearing any resemblance to the picture of the poet's
imagination--instead of standing mute with rage, and annihilating the
musician with a horrible scowl from beneath his shaggy and frowning
brows, Mr. Rushton presented a perfect picture of softness and
emotion. His head bending forward, his eyes half closed and filled
with an imperceptible mist, his whole manner quiet, and sad, and
subdued, he seemed to hang upon the long-drawn sighing of the violin,
and take a mournful pleasure in its utterances.

Verty's hand passed more and more slowly backward and forward--the
music became still more affecting, and passing from thoughtfulness
to sadness, and from sadness to passionate regret, it died away in a
wail.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turned round. Mr. Rushton, with
moist eyes and trembling lips, was gazing at him.

"Do not play that any more, young man," he said, in a low tone, "it
distresses me."

"Distresses you, sir?" said Verty.

"Yes."

"What? 'Lullaby?'"

"Yes," muttered the lawyer.

Verty's sad eyes inquired the meaning of so singular a fact, but Mr.
Rushton did not indulge this curiosity.

"Enough," he said, with more calmness, as he turned away, "it is not
proper for you to play the violin here in business hours; but above
all, never again play that music--I cannot endure the memories it
arouses--enough."

And retiring slowly, Mr. Rushton disappeared, closing the door of his
room behind him.

Verty followed him with his eyes until he was no longer visibl