And at this point the document abruptly terminated. I read the letter to PORTINGTON, and asked his opinion upon it. He replied abruptly he "considered the writer a lunatic." "Well, no, I do not think we can go quite so far as that," I observed. "You see, he seems to have some appreciation of my talents. He may be a trifle eccentric, but I fancy nothing worse." Encouraged by this belief in the sanity of my semi-anonymous (I use the epithet advisedly, as I take it that the incidental claim to the throne of the Celestial Empire was not urged seriously) correspondent, I opened the package. The brown paper unwound and a picture was revealed to us. It had evidently been painted for many years. The frame (which, in PORTINGTON'S opinion, was the best portion of the structure) was distinctly old-fashioned. The gilding was tarnished and the woodwork out of repair. "What is the subject?" I asked, after three or four minutes' close inspection. "I think, Sir," replied my excellent and admirable clerk, "that it's something to do with a donkey." PORTINGTON was right. On closer investigation the painting revealed itself to be the representation of a cottage in the snow, with some villagers drawing water from a half-frozen pond in the neighbourhood of a rather intelligent donkey, who was watching their proceedings with languid interest. "Certainly it is a donkey," I exclaimed; "and, to my thinking, a very fine one." "What shall we do with it, Sir?" asked PORTINGTON. "It's no good here; shall I give it to the dustman? He would take it away if we asked him." For a moment I thought my clerical (I use the adjective in its non-ecclesiastical sense) representative was indulging in jocularity. I found I was in error. PORTINGTON was absolutely serious. "You evidently do not know the value of some of these old frames. Of course I shall take the picture with me to my private residence." I carried out my intention. The canvas presentment of the donkey and accessories was carefully conveyed in a four-wheeler to Justinian Gardens, where I have rented for some years a very pleasant house. The lady who has honoured me by taking my name, and whom in my more playful humour I sportively term my "better seven-eighths," received me. "I hope you have brought the music from the Stores," said the lady, after our first greetings. "I suppose that package came from Victoria Street?" "No, my precious one," I replied; I sometimes use terms of endearment to the members of my domestic circle. "It is a picture given to me by a grateful client." "Client!" she exclaimed; "and a grateful one! What a find! But why bring it here? Haven't we already more pictures than we want? Why at this moment there's half-a-dozen of extra plates from the Christmas numbers that you _would_ have framed, waiting to be hung." "But this, my love, is an oil-painting, with what I judge to be a very valuable old-fashioned frame." By this time my present was revealed.