With that bad taste which characterizes the victims of this delusion, he could not consent to supply the place of the chosen object of his love with any other image; and even regarded the classic and romantic Miss Sallianna as wholly unworthy to supplant Redbud in his affections.  Youth is proverbially unreasonable and fastidious on these subjects, and Verty, with the true folly of a young man, could not discern in Miss Sallianna those thousand graces and attractions, linguistic, philosophical, historical and scientific, which made her so far superior to the child with whom he had played, and committed the folly of falling in love with.  So he went along sighing, with his arms hanging down, as we have said, and his shoulders drooping; and in this melancholy guise, reached the office of Judge Rushton.

He found Mr. Roundjacket still driving away with his pen, only stopping at intervals to flourish his ruler, or to cast an affectionate glance upon the MS. of his great poem, which, gracefully tied with red tape arranged in a magnificent bow, lay by him on the desk.

On Verty’s entrance the poet raised his head, and looked at him curiously.

“Well, my fine fellow,” he said, “what luck in your wooing?  You look as wo-begone as the individual who drew Priam’s curtain at the dead of night.  Come! my young savage, why are you so sad?”

Verty sat down, murmuring something.

“Speak out!” said Mr. Roundjacket, wiping his pen.

“I’m not very sad,” Verty replied, looking perfectly disconsolate—­“what made you think so, Mr. Roundjacket?”

“Your physiognomy, my young friend.  Are you happy with such a face as that?’

“Such a face?”

“Yes; I tell you that you look as if you had just parted with all your hopes—­as if some adverse fate had deprived you of the privilege of living in this temple of Thespis and the muses.  You could not look more doleful if I had threatened never to read any more of my great poem to you.”

“Couldn’t?” said Verty, listlessly.

“No.”

The young man only replied with a sigh.

“There it is—­you are groaning.  Come; have you quarreled with your mistress?”

Verty colored, and his head sank.

“Please don’t ask me, sir,” he said; “I have not been very happy to-day—­everything has gone wrong.  I had better get to my work, sir,—­I may forget it.”

And with a look of profound discouragement, which seemed to be reflected in the sympathizing face of Longears, who had stretched himself at his master’s feet and now lay gazing at him, Verty opened the record he had been copying, and began to write.

Roundjacket looked at him for a moment in silence, and then, with an expression of affection and pity, which made his grotesque face absolutely handsome, muttered something to himself, and followed Verty’s example.