with a smoke and a long yarn.  I had not seen Dick since morning to notice him, but could not help observing him now, as he walked about with the air of a man who is trying to free himself from some melancholy thought.  I did not interrupt him, when he passed the place where I was sitting with David, but two or three times he halted as he came by us.  My Yankee friend was giving me a lively description of a clam-bake at Swampscot, in return for a picture I had drawn of life on a plantation in Virginia; but though it was most amusing, I could not help pitying Dick.  By and by he stopped near us, and stood looking earnestly at something which he had taken from his bosom.  A sudden wave struck the vessel, which gave it a tilt, and in preserving his footing Dick dropped a small locket on the edge of the deck, which David caught fast as it was slipping into the water.

As he handed the trinket to its owner, I could not help seeing that it held the miniature of a lovely child, not more than four years old.  The hair was very light, and curled so sweetly, that the eyes were like Lily Carrol’s, only a little sadder; but the mouth seemed as ready to smile as hers always is.  The face was not at all like Dick’s, but yet it reminded me of what his might have been when a child.

“O, how beautiful!” I exclaimed involuntarily, as David placed it in Dick’s hand.

“Do you think so?” he asked, earnestly.  “Look again at this merry face, and tell me if it ever ought to have been saddened by sorrow.”

“But, you know, ’by the sorrow of the countenance the heart is made better,’” I replied, wishing to soothe the grief which he evidently felt, as he held the miniature for me to look at it again.

“Better!” repeated Dick, sternly.  “There could not be a better heart than my sweet sister Louisa always had.  That picture gives only a faint idea of her lovely face, for it represents its least pleasing expression, and she had not then reached the height of her beauty.  Yet it is very like,” he added, gazing sadly upon it.  “Even now I seem to hear those rosy lips utter their first sweet lisp,—­’Dear brother.’”

“No wonder that you loved her, if she was even prettier than this!” I exclaimed; “for I could lay down my life for such a sister.”

“I did not love her,” he answered, to our great surprise.  “You are astonished at the confession; but I am not sure that, affectionate as you boys both seem, you either of you know what true love is.  I was proud of Louisa.  When she was an infant I liked to hear her praises; and as she grew more and more beautiful, and began to pour out the first woman feelings of her guileless heart upon me, I received them with gratitude, and really believed she was, what I called her, ’my heart’s treasure.’”

“Then why do you say that you did not love her?” I inquired, hesitatingly.

“Because years have convinced me,” he replied, “that I was even then, what I have ever since been, one mass of selfishness.  I never gave up a single wish for her pleasure, or made one effort to add to her happiness.  Never say, my boys, that you love any one, till you find your own will giving way to the desire to please them, and that you can cheerfully renounce your most cherished plans for their sake.”