s
harsh lines and exaggerated features magnifying mental defects, while
they concealed the good qualities of the warm, generous heart that shone
like some precious gem within that hard rough case.

Mr. W. loved opposition, and courted it. He roused himself up to an
argument, as a terrier dog rouses himself to kill rats; and, like the
said terrier, when he got the advantage of his opponent, he loved to
worry and tease, to hold on till the last, till the vanquished was fain
to cry aloud for mercy; and then his main object in quitting the dispute
was to lie in wait for a fresh tussel. Flora laughed at all his blunt
speeches, and enjoyed his rude wit, and opposed him, and argued with him
to his heart's content, until they became the best friends in the world.
Their first meeting was so characteristic, that we must give it here.

Flora had accepted an invitation to dine, with her husband, at Mr. W.'s
house. It was only a family party, and they were to come early. On their
arrival, they found that Mr. W. had been called away on business, but
was expected back to dinner. After chatting awhile to Mrs. W. and her
daughters, Flora's attention was strongly directed to an oil-painting
which hung above the drawing-room mantelpiece. It was the portrait of an
old man, as large as life. The figure was represented in a sitting
posture, his head leaning upon his hand, or rather the chin supported in
the open palm. The eyes glanced upward with a sarcastic, humorous
expression, as if the original were in the act of asking some question
which a listener might find it no easy matter to answer; and a smile of
mischievous triumph hovered about the mouth. It was an extraordinary
countenance. No common every-day face, to which you could point and say,
"Does not that put you in mind of Mr. So-and-So?" Memory could supply no
duplicate to this picture. It was like but one other face in the world,
the one from which it had been faithfully copied. It was originally
meant for a handsome face, but the features were exaggerated until they
became grotesque and coarse in the extreme, and the thick, bushy,
iron-grey hair and whiskers, and clay-coloured complexion, put the
finishing strokes to a portrait, which might be considered the very
_ideal of ugliness_.

While Flora sat looking at the picture, and secretly wondering how any
person with such a face could bear to see it transferred to canvas, she
was suddenly roused from her reverie by the pressure o