ed to give her room a kind of enchanted look, as if
a witch had her home in it. Over the fireplace was a long, staff-like
branch, strangled in the spiral coils of one of those vines which strain
the smaller trees in their clinging embraces, sinking into the bark
until the parasite becomes almost identified with its support. With
these sylvan curiosities were blended objects of art, some of them not
less singular, but others showing a love for the beautiful in form
and color, such as a girl of fine organization and nice culture might
naturally be expected to feel and to indulge, in adorning her apartment.

All these objects, pictures, bronzes, vases, and the rest, did not
detain Mr. Richard Veneer very long, whatever may have been his
sensibilities to art. He was more curious about books and papers. A copy
of Keats lay on the table. He opened it and read the name of Bernard
C. Langdon on the blank leaf. An envelope was on the table with Elsie's
name written in a similar hand; but the envelope was empty, and he could
not find the note it contained. Her desk was locked, and it would not be
safe to tamper with it. He had seen enough; the girl received books
and notes from this fellow up at the school, this usher, this Yankee
quill-driver;--he was aspiring to become the lord of the Dudley domain,
then, was he?

Elsie had been reasonably careful. She had locked up her papers,
whatever they might be. There was little else that promised to
reward his curiosity, but he cast his eye on everything. There was a
clasp-Bible among her books. Dick wondered if she ever unclasped it.
There was a book of hymns; it had her name in it, and looked as if it
might have been often read;--what the diablo had Elsie to do with hymns?

Mr. Richard Venner was in an observing and analytical state of mind, it
will be noticed, or he might perhaps have been touched with the innocent
betrayals of the poor girl's chamber. Had she, after all, some human
tenderness in her heart? That was not the way he put the question,--but
whether she would take seriously to this schoolmaster, and if she did,
what would be the neatest and surest and quickest way of putting a stop
to all that nonsense. All this, however, he could think over more safely
in his own quarters. So he stole softly to the window, and, catching
the end of the leathern thong, regained his own chamber and drew in the
lasso.

It needs only a little jealousy to set a man on who is doubtful in love