Thus matters went on—Captain Fogg’s star declining visibly, and Harry Grove’s evidently in the ascendant, until the last week of our stay, when a little incident occurred which had quite a disturbing influence on the pleasant current of my thoughts and Kate’s. One afternoon, while Harry was out shooting woodcock, of which Kate was very fond, on going up to my room, I perceived the door of Harry’s open, and saw his easil standing before the window, with a picture upon it. I could not resist the temptation of seeing what this might be, and entered the room. The picture was a small female head—the face rather fair, with dark blue eyes. It was probably a portrait, still unfinished. The likeness I did not recognize, though it looked like half a dozen pretty faces I had seen—Kate’s and Miss Grant’s among the number. To the bottom of the picture was attached a slip of paper, bearing these lines: “Glow on the canvas, face of my beloved! Smile out upon me, eyes of heavenly blue! Oh! be my soul’s love by my pencil proved, And lips of rose, and locks of auburn hue, Come less obedient to the call of art, Than to the pleading voice of my adoring heart!” When I had read this verse, I remained standing before the picture in a thoughtful trance. I was finally startled by a deep sigh, and turning, saw Kate just behind me. She had also seen the portrait of the unknown, and read those passionate lines. She turned immediately and passed into her room. When I rejoined her, a few moments after, she was reading, apparently deep in “Martin Chuzzlewit,” but tears were falling on the page before her. “Martin’s return to his grandfather is a very affecting scene,” she observed. I naturally glanced over her shoulder; the book was open at that “tempest-in-a-teapot” scene, the memorable misunderstanding between Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig. Oh, Kate, Kate! thy heart had gone many days’ journey into the life and fortunes of quite another than Martin. In the evening Captain Fogg honored us, and Kate was unusually affable and gay. She sung none but comic songs, and her merry laugh rang out like a peal of bells. During the evening we played a game of forfeits, and it was once adjudged that the captain should relate a story, to redeem his turquoise breastpin. He told a late dream, which was, that once, on taking a morning walk to hear the birds sing, he found Miss Richmond completely _lost in a fog_, and refused to help her out! Oh, how he sparkled, as he fairly got off his witticism, and saw that it took! “Ah, captain,” said I, “you must have a gift for punning.” “Something of one, Miss,” he replied, with a complacent pull at his imperial. “I was into White’s, the other day, buying some music, and White offered me a song called ‘Mary’s Tears,’ which I told him must have a tremendous _run_! White laughed till he cried, and threatened to expose me in our paper! ’Pon honor, he did so!”