When Roundjacket commenced writing, he did so with the regularity and accuracy of a machine which is set in motion by the turning of a crank, and goes on until it is stopped.  This was the case on the present occasion, and Verty seemed as earnestly engaged in his own particular task.  But appearances are deceptive—­Indian nature will not take the curb like Anglo-Saxon—­and a glance over Verty’s shoulders will reveal the species of occupation which he became engaged in after finishing ten lines of the law paper.

He was tracing with melancholy interest a picture upon the sheet beneath his pen; and this was a lovely little design of a young girl, with smiling lips, kind, tender eyes, and cheeks which were round and beautiful with mirth.  With a stroke of the pen Verty added the waving hair, brushed back a la Pompadour the foam of lace around the neck, and the golden drop in the little ear.  Redbud looked at you from the paper, with her modest eyes and smiles—­and for a moment Verty gazed at the creation of his pencil, sighing mournfully.

Then, with a deeper sigh than before, he drew beneath this another sketch—­the same head, but very different.  The eyes now were cold and half closed—­the lips were close together, and seemed almost disdainful—­and as the gentle bending forward in the first design was full of pleasant abandon and graceful kindness, so the head in the present sketch had that erect and frigid carriage which indicates displeasure.

Verty covered his eyes with his hand, and leaning down upon the desk, was silent and motionless, except that a stifled sigh would at times issue from his lips, a sad heaving of his breast indicate the nature of his thoughts.

Longears rose, and coming to his master, wagged his tail, and asked, with his mute but intelligent glance, what had happened.

Verty felt the dog lick his hand, and rose from his recumbent posture.

“Yes, yes, Longears,” he murmured, “I can’t help showing it—­even you know that I am not happy.”

And with listless hands he took up the old violin which lay upon his desk and touched the strings.  The sound died away in trembling waves—­Roundjacket continued writing.

Verty, without appearing to be conscious of what he was doing, took the bow of the violin, and placing the instrument upon his shoulder, leaned his ear down to it, and drew the hair over the strings.  A long, sad monotone floated through the room.

Roundjacket wrote on.

Verty, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, his lips sorrowfully listless, his frame drooping more and more, began to play a low, sad air, which sounded like a sigh.

Roundjacket raised his head, and looked at the musician.

Verty leaned more and more upon his instrument, listening to it as to some one speaking to him, his eyes closed, his bosom heaving, his under lip compressed sorrowfully as he dreamed.

Roundjacket was just about to call upon Verty to cease his savage and outrageous conduct, or Mr. Rushton, who was in the other room, would soon issue forth and revenge such a dreadful violation of law office propriety, when the door of that gentleman’s sanctum opened, and he appeared upon the threshold.