A large oil painting ornamented the wall over the fire-place, representing a young mother, with an infant on her breast, reclining on the left arm of a man, who was defending her with his right, from the assaults of a ruffian. A beautiful girl lay weltering in blood near the surviving group; and the husband seemed to have received several dangerous wounds, from which large drops of blood were falling. It was a scene of deep and thrilling interest, and expressive of some awful tragedy. It was also well executed, and the languishing despair which beamed from the face of the young mother would almost seem, at times, to convert the painted canvas into a mass of animation. At this picture Mr. Dobbs was often seen to gaze with sad countenance and quivering lip; while the throbbings of his temples told that the mind was at work with melancholy thoughts. He became sad and cheerless, avoided all company (but Nanny’s) as much as possible, and was sometimes found weeping. Yet none knew the cause of his silent grief. Nanny observed the effect which had been wrought on him by the picture, and communicated the fact to her mother. “He seems,” said she, “to take a sad pleasure in looking at the painting. He showed me a miniature yesterday, which is the express image of the lady with the infant child in her arms; and when I had examined it, and returned it to him, he pressed it to his lips, and the tears fell from his eyes. There must be something strange connected with his history!” “And did he say nothing about the miniature or the painting?” inquired Mr. Brigs. “Nothing!” replied Nanny, “I saw the subject gave him pain, and I feared to ask him any thing about it.” “Where is the miniature?” asked Mrs. Brigs. “He keeps it in his vest pocket,” answered Nanny. “I will beg him to show it to you, mother—I know he will.” “No, child—don’t. I will inquire into the secret myself. But Nanny, did you never hear the story of the painting over the fire?” “No,” said Nanny; “what is it?” “Ah! it’s an awful thing—all true as Gospel—dreadful!” Here Mrs. Brigs requested her daughter to ask her no questions, and she would tell her some other time. The young girl’s fears were excited, but she concealed them within her own bosom. * * * * * “Mr. Dobbs,” said Mrs. Brigs one evening, “what on earth ails you? You look like you have lost the best friend you had in the world. Do pray tell us what has made you so gloomy for so many days.” Timothy sighed deeply, and a crimson flush suffused the cheek of Nanny. Mr. Brigs turned up his collar, and ran his fingers through his gray locks, and looked very hard at Mr. Dobbs. Solomon looked very hard at his father; and Mrs. Brigs looked at every one in the room alternately.