here are you?--who are you?"

"You were just speaking of me," said the voice.

Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right, a bladder
of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany.
"Where are you?" cried he again.

"S-q-u-e-e-z-e!" exclaimed the little voice.

Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze; when,
as sure as I am living, a little imp spurted out from the hole upon the
palette, and began laughing in the most singular and oily manner.

When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole; then he grew to
be as big as a mouse; then he arrived at the size of a cat; and then
he jumped off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked the poor
painter what he wanted with him.

The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed himself at
last upon the top of Gambouge's easel,--smearing out, with his heels,
all the white and vermilion which had just been laid on the allegoric
portrait of Mrs. Gambouge.

"What!" exclaimed Simon, "is it the--"

"Exactly so; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand: besides, I
am not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me a
little better."

"Upon my word," said the painter, "it is a very singular surprise
which you have given me. To tell truth, I did not even believe in your
existence."

The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. Macready's
best looks, said,--

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio,
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy."

Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the quotation, but felt
somehow strangely and singularly interested in the conversation of his
new friend.

Diabolus continued: "You are a man of merit, and want money; you will
starve on your merit; you can only get money from me. Come, my friend,
how much is it? I ask the easiest interest in the world: old Mordecai,
the usurer, has made you pay twice as heavily before now: nothing but
the signature of a bond, which is a mere ceremony, and the transfer
of an article which, in itself, is a supposition--a valueless, windy,
uncertain property of yours, called, by some poet of your own, I think,
an animula, vagula, blandula--bah! there is no use beating about the
bush--I mean A SOUL. Come, let me have it; you know you will sell it
some other way, and not get such good pay for your bargain!"--and,
having made this speech, the Devil pulled o