He got up to inspect it. To Ida, he was measuring himself with it, as he straightened his Apollo figure, and expanded his full chest. "A good painting!" he observed. "How long since it was taken?" "Two years." "The pencil of time is the best test of the value of a picture--to some it is a destroyer,--it beautifies others. An excellent piece of work!"--still scanning it. "Is the likeness correct?" "Uncommonly--or was, when it was painted. Mr. Read looks older and thinner now, that his health is impaired." Again that sinister smile! but he said nothing more. He called again, with a friend, an _habitue_ of the house. It was evening, and Mrs. Read saw them. The length of his stay in Richmond was indefinite;--they were not sure but each visit was his last; and he, keeping up the uncertainty, came frequently, at the hours which suited him best. Josephine, succumbing seemingly, to the power of his wizard wand, freely declared her dread of his departure; Ida felt as much when with him, and revoked it, secretly, as soon as her eyes recovered from their dazzlement. Mrs. Read treated him, as she did her other visitors, and bore no part in the chorus of laudations chaunted in his absence. When Mr. Read was well enough to see company, he fell an easy conquest to the arts of the inimitable stranger. "He was"--he protested, "a better doctor than Ballard. An hour of his society was more beneficial to him, than the apothecary's entire stock of drugs." His birth-day was near at hand, and he determined to invite his friends to rejoice with him, at his partial restoration to health. It was to be an unostentatious affair--a dinner, and no ladies but those belonging to the family. Mr. Read was as impatient as a child at its first tea-party. "They are late, Helen! they are not coming!" he said every few minutes, while they were awaiting the guests. He was working himself into a passion, when the welcome ring appeased him. "Mr. Copeland!" called the stentorian lungs of the footman; and Mrs. Read was as white, as if the hand of Death had smitten her. "How are you all?" said Richard, in his joyous, rattling style. "Miss Ross, I am delighted to meet you--Miss Josephine, I will not disparage your blooming cheeks by asking after your health,--and you, Mr. Read, have been practicing upon our fears, by stories of illness--hasn't he, Helen--_you_ are ill!" he said, brought to a full stop by her pallor. "Ill! you are well--are you not?" said Mr. Read, in alarm. "Well! yes! what notions you have, Richard!" and the color flowed back. "When did you come in?--down, I mean, and how are they at home?" "'Home' is too bridish for a demure matron; but they are well, and sent love. I arrived this morning, and should have been in before, but for business." "Don't leave the room, Helen. Somebody will come while you are out. Send John for what you want;" said Mr. Read.--She was slipping out through the back parlor.