“Come,” said Mr. Briggs—“Come, Mr. Dobbs, let’s hear what’s the matter. Remember, young man, you are among friends; and if I can do any thing for you—why, I’ll do it. Come, now, let out. Don’t kill yourself for no trifle, young man.” “I feel much obliged to you,” replied Timothy, “and will ask but one favor. I cannot now tell you what ails me; but there is something in this house which gives me great anxiety. I have long wished to make the inquiry, but had not the courage. Tell me, then, what is the meaning of that picture which hangs before me?” “Zooks!” cried Mr. Brigs, “and is it the picture that has caused all your bad feelings, Mr. Dobbs?” “It is,” returned the schoolmaster; “and I wish to know what it means!” The surprise of Mr. Brigs and Solomon may be better imagined than described. The old gentleman drew out his red silk handkerchief and rubbed his eyes, stuffed it into his pocket again, and stared with all his might right into the schoolmaster’s face. Solomon stared also; and laying down the book he was reading, prepared himself to hear something strange. Mrs. Brigs and her daughter were before partially acquainted with the cause of Timothy’s disease—at least, they knew that it sprung from the oil painting in question. All was now deep interest, awaiting the development of some wonderful discovery. “Ah!” said Mrs. Brigs, “it’s a solemn thing that! It used to make me sick to look at it; but it’s a long time since it was hung up there, and I’ve got used to it. Still it sticks deep into my heart—it does! It tells a sad story—but you shall hear it, Mr. Dobbs!” And Mrs. Brigs began. I will not give the reader the story in the very words in which Mrs. Brigs gave it to Timothy; because that is impossible: for she paused more than once to wipe away the big tears, and to sob; and was obliged to commence afresh as many as three times before she satisfied herself that she was in the right path, and had begun at the beginning. But, as I said, she began, and the following is the substance of the narrative: THE STORY OF THE PICTURE. John Bloomfield, a merchant of London, was the father of two children, to wit: Arthur Bloomfield and Polly Bloomfield, now Polly Brigs, wife of Allen Brigs. He came to this country about two years anterior to the commencement of the Revolution, and settled on a handsome country-seat, near the place where now stands our village. Mrs. Bloomfield died during the passage across the Atlantic; so John Bloomfield was a widower. At the time of his migration Arthur was twenty and Polly sixteen years of age. The latter was shortly afterward married to Mr. Brigs; and the widowed father dying, Arthur determined to sail for the West Indies, for the purpose of trading on the capital inherited from his father, which amounted to some five hundred pounds sterling.