trouble."

Roundjacket sniffed.

"Don't be sorry," said Verty.

"I cannot refrain, sir," said Roundjacket, in a tone of acute agony;
"it is more than I can bear. See here, sir, again: 'High Jove! great
father!' is changed into 'By Jove, I'd rather!' and so on. Sir, it
is more than humanity can bear; I feel that I shall sink under it. I
shall be in bed to-morrow, sir--after all my trouble--'By Jove!'"

With this despairing exclamation Roundjacket let his head fall,
overcome with grief, upon his desk, requesting not to be spoken to,
after the wont of great unfortunates.

Verty seemed to feel great respect for this overwhelming grief; at
least he did not utter any commonplace consolations. He also leaned
upon his desk, and his idle hands traced idle lines upon the paper
before him.

His dreamy eyes, full of quiet pleasure, fixed themselves upon the far
distance--he was thinking of Redbud.

He finally aroused himself, however, and began to work. Half an hour,
an hour, another hour passed--Verty was breaking himself into the
traces; he had finished his work.

He rose, and going to Mr. Rushton's door, knocked and opened it. The
lawyer was not there; Verty looked round--his companion was absorbed
in writing.

Verty sat down in the lawyer's arm-chair.

CHAPTER L.

HOW VERTY DISCOVERED A PORTRAIT, AND WHAT ENSUED.

For some time the young man remained motionless and silent, thinking
of Redbud, and smiling with the old proverbial delight of lovers,
as the memory of her bright sweet face, and kind eyes, came to his
thoughts.

There was now no longer any doubt, assuredly, that he was what was
called "in love" with Redbud; Verty said as much to himself, and we
need not add that when this circumstance occurs, the individual who
comes to such conclusion, is no longer his own master, or the master
of his heart, which is gone from him.

For as it is observable that persons often imagine themselves affected
with material ailments when there is no good ground for such a
supposition; so, on the other hand, is it true that those who labor
under the disease of love are the last to know their own condition.
As Verty, therefore, came to the conclusion that he must be "in love"
with Redbud, we may form a tolerably correct idea of the actual fact.

Why should he not love her? Redbud was so kind, so tender; her large
liquid eyes were instinct with such deep truth and goodness; in her
fresh, frank face there was such rad