Mr. Read was in his private sitting-room;--it adjoined his chamber, and his longest walk was from one apartment to the other. The sun beamed cheerfully through the damask curtains, and the fire blazed and crackled in the grate; but wrapped in his wadded dressing-gown, his feet sunk heavily into a cushion, and his face contracted into a fretful frown, he appeared to be enduring the extreme of cold and discomfort. He was a sorry picture of a three months' bridegroom. His surroundings were tasteful and luxurious,--books and papers and pictures and handsome furniture, and at his elbow stood a silver hand-bell, whose tongue would bring an obsequious servant, ready to perform his bidding; yet his sigh, as he fidgeted uneasily in his downy _fauteuil_, was a groan of repining.--"Like a jaded old hack! they won't knock him in the head, in consideration of past services; but he may die as soon as he can--the quicker the better!" "The Northern papers have come, sir, and I thought you would like to see them;" said a gentle voice. It was his ward. A grunt and a gesture bade her put them upon the stand. "Are you in pain this afternoon?" she asked, sympathizingly. "I am always in pain!" "Can I do anything for you?" "No!" He reached for the papers; but a twinge in his shoulder forced him to drop them. Ida picked them up. The desolate old man excited her sincerest pity. "It must weary you, holding those large sheets; and the print is fine. If you will designate the articles you wish read, I will do it for you with pleasure." The offer was tempting, although its acceptance was ungracious. He pointed to a piece, and she removed her bonnet and seated herself near him. He did not inquire if she were going out, and she did not make her sacrifice meritorious in his eyes, by informing him that she gave up her walk to minister to his enjoyment. She read well;--her voice was exquisitely modulated; her enunciation perfect; Mr. Read forgot to be peevish, and his corrugated forehead lost half its wrinkles. When she ceased, he seemed to have been lulled by a strain of music. The article selected was an editorial leader on political economy, unintelligible and prosy to Ida; but she endeavored not to let this appear. He nodded, and stripped the envelope from another sheet. His eye gleamed, and with an approach to a smile, he showed her six columns of an oration;--a grand effort of the immortal sage of Marshfield. Ida was appalled at the superficies of the solid mass, but she said over to herself, a verse she had lisped at her mother's knee. "Did I this day, for small or great, My own pursuits forego, To lighten, by a feather's weight, The load of human woe?"