Therefore was it that Verty had become a lawyer’s clerk; and it was the recollection of these causes of sadness which had made the boy so dull and languid.

Without Redbud, everything seemed dim to him; and he could not ask whither she had flown.

This was his sad predicament.

After receiving the assurance of Roundjacket’s pardon, Verty, as we have said, began scrawling over the copy of the deed he was making the name of Redbud.  This persevering and thoughtful occupation at last attracted the attention of his companion.

“Redbud!” asked the poet, “who is Redbud, my young friend?  I should conjecture that she was a young lady, from the name.—­Stay, is there not a Miss Redbud Summers, daughter of the Squire of said name?”

Verty nodded.

“A friend of yours?”

“Yes,” sighed Verty.

Mr. Roundjacket smiled.

“Perhaps you are making love to her?” he said.

“Making love?” asked Verty, “what is that?”

“How!” cried the poet, “you don’t mean to say you are ignorant of the nature of that divine sentiment which elevates and ennobles in so remarkable a degree—­hem!—­all humanity!”

“Anan!” said Verty, with an inquiring look.

Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a profound silence.

“My young friend,” he said at last, “how old are you?”

“Eighteen, ma mere says.”

“Who’s mommer, pray?”

“Mother.”

“Oh,” said the poet, with some confusion, “the fact is, your pronunciation—­but don’t let us discuss that.  I was going to say, that it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life without making love to some lady.”

Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.

Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance in his companion;—­he revolved in his mind the means of enlightening Verty, in vain.

At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and said, mysteriously: 

“Do you see me?”

“Yes,” replied Verty.

“Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six.”

Verty looked interested.

“At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times,” continued Mr. Roundjacket; “and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my addresses—­yes, to proceed to the last word, the ‘will you,’ namely,—­once, at least, a year.”

Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow.

“I feel very tired,” he said, “I wish I was in the woods.”

And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door, and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street.

He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town.  He seemed to have been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of some magician’s wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the scene.  Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have induced the passers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling hair and the un-Indian face.