There was an old press, covered with dust and cobwebs, on the top of which huge volumes of Justinian’s Institutes frowned at the ceiling; a row of shelves which were crammed with law books; an old faded carpet covered with ink-splotches on his right hand, splotches evidently produced by the lawyer’s habit of shaking the superfluous ink from his pen before he placed it upon the paper; a dilapidated chair or two; the rough walnut desk at which he sat, covered with papers, open law volumes, and red tape; and finally, a tall mantel-piece, on which stood a half-emptied ink bottle—­which mantel-piece rose over a wide fire-place, surrounded with a low iron fender, on which a dislocated pair of tongs were exposed in grim resignation to the evils of old age.

There was little to interest Verty in all this—­or in the old iron-bound trunks in the corners.

But his eye suddenly falls on a curtain, in the recess farthest from the door—­the edge of a curtain; for the object which this curtain conceals, is not visible from the chair in which he sits.

Verty rises, and goes into the recess, and looks.

The curtain falls over a picture—­Verty raises it, and stands in admiration before the portrait, which it covered.

“What a lovely child!” he exclaims.  “I have never seen a prettier little girl in all my life!  What beautiful hair she has!”

And Verty, with the curtain in his left hand, blows away the dust from the canvas.

The portrait is indeed exquisite.  The picture represents a child of two or three years of age, of rare and surpassing beauty.  Over its white brow hang long yellow ringlets—­the eyes dance and play—­the ripe, ruddy lips, resembling cherries, are wreathed with the careless laughter of infancy.  The child wears a little blue frock which permits two round, fat arms to be seen; and one of the hands grasps a doll, drawn to the life.  There is so much freshness and reality about the picture, that Verty exclaims a second time, “What a lovely little girl!”

Thus absorbed in the picture, he does not hear a growling voice in the adjoining room—­is not conscious of the heavy step advancing toward the room he occupies—­does not even hear the door open as the new comer enters.

“Who can she be!” murmurs the young man; “not Mr. Rushton’s little daughter—­I never heard that he was married, or had any children.  Pretty little thing!”

And Verty smiled.

Suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gruff, stern voice said: 

“What are you doing, sir?”

Verty turned quickly; Mr. Rushton stood before him—­gloomy, forbidding, with a heavy frown upon his brow.

“What are you prying into?” repeated the lawyer, angrily; “are you not aware, sir, that this is my private apartment?  What has induced you to presume in such a manner?”

Verty was almost terrified by the sternness of these cold words, and looked down.  Then conscious of the innocence of his action, raised his eyes, and said: