“Indeed, sir?”

“Yes:  and why, sir?” asked Mr. Roundjacket, evidently with the intention of answering his own question.

“I don’t know,” replied Verty.

“Because, then, sir, the author may read his work to his wife, which is a circumstance productive of great pleasure on both sides, you perceive.”

“It might be, but I think it might’nt, sir?” Verty said.

“How, might’nt be?”

“It might be very bad writing—­not interesting—­such as ought to be burned, you know,” said Verty.

“Hum!” replied Roundjacket, “there’s something in that.”

“If I was to write—­but I could’nt—­I don’t think I would read it to my wife—­if I had a wife,” added Verty.

And he sighed.

“A wife! you!” cried Mr. Roundjacket.

“Is there anything wrong in my wishing to marry?”

“Hum!—­yes, sir; there is a certain amount of irrationality in any body desiring such a thing—­not in you especially.”

“Oh, Mr. Roundjacket, you advised me only a few weeks ago to be always courting somebody—­courting was the word; I recollect it.”

“Hum!” repeated Roundjacket; “did I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, sir, I suppose a man has a right to amend.”

“Anan, sir?”

“I say that a man has a right to file an amended and supplemental bill, stating new facts; but you don’t understand.  Perhaps, sir, I was right, and perhaps I was wrong in that advice.”

“But, Mr. Roundjacket,” said Verty, sighing, “do you think I ought not to marry because I am an Indian?”

This question of ethics evidently puzzled the poet.

“An Indian—­hum—­an Indian?” he said; “but are you an Indian, my young friend?”

“You know ma mere is, and I am her son.”

Roundjacket shook his head.

“You are a Saxon, not an Aboriginal,” he said; “and to tell you the truth, your origin has been the great puzzle of my life, sir.”

“Has it?”

“It has, indeed.”

Verty looked thoughtful, and his dreamy gaze was fixed upon vacancy.

“It has troubled me a good deal lately,” he said, “and I have been thinking about it very often—­since I came to live in Winchester, you know.  As long as I was in the woods, it did not come into my thoughts much; the deer, and turkeys, and bears never asked,” added Verty, with a smile.  “The travellers who stopped for a draught of water or a slice of venison at ma mere’s, never seemed to think anything about it, or to like me the worse for not knowing where I came from.  It’s only since I came into society here, sir, that I am troubled.  It troubles me very much,” added Verty, his head drooping.

“Zounds!” cried Roundjacket, betrayed by his feelings into an oath, “don’t let it, Verty!  You’re a fine, honest fellow, whether you’re an Indian or not; and if I had a daughter—­which,” added Mr. Roundjacket, “I’m glad to say I have not—­you should have her for the asking.  Who cares! you’re a gentleman, every inch of you!”