talking sad nonsense.
But hereby hangs a tale."

I looked up inquiringly. Harrison was hard at work. I saw a mischievous
smile hovering about his lips. He turned his back abruptly to the door,
and bent more closely over his parchment, as Theophilus Moncton entered
the office equipped for a journey.

CHAPTER IX.

A PORTRAIT.

Two years had passed away since I last beheld my cousin, and during his
absence, there had been peace between his father and me. He appeared
before me like the evil genius of the house, prepared to renew the old
hostility, and I could not meet him with the least show of cordiality
and affection.

I am not a good hand at sketching portraits, but the person of my
cousin is so fresh in my memory, his image so closely interwoven with
all the leading events of my life, that I can scarcely fail in giving a
tolerably correct likeness of the original.

He was about the middle stature, his figure slender and exceedingly
well made: and but for a strong dash of affectation, which marred all
that he did and said, his carriage would have been easy and graceful.
His head was small and handsomely placed upon his shoulders, his
features sharply defined and very prominent. His teeth were remarkably
white, but so long and narrow, that they gave a peculiarly sinister and
malicious expression to his face--which expression was greatly
heightened by the ghastly contortion that was meant for a smile, and
which was in constant requisition, in order to show off the said teeth,
which Theophilus considered one of his greatest attractions. But my
cousin had no personal attractions. There was nothing manly or decided
about him. Smooth and insidious where he wished to please, his first
appearance to strangers was always unprepossessing; and few persons on
their first introduction had any great desire to extend their
acquaintance.

He ought to have been fair, for his hair and whiskers were of the
palest tint of brown; but his complexion was grey and muddy, and his
large sea-green eyes afforded not the least contrast to the uniform
smokiness of his skin. Those cold, selfish, deceitful eyes; his
father's in shape and expression, but lacking the dark strength--the
stern, determined look which at times lighted up Robert Moncton's
proud, cruel face.

Much as I disliked the father, he was in his worst moods more tolerable
to me than his son. Glimpses of his mind would at times flash out
through those unnaturally br