"I'm not very sad," Verty replied, looking perfectly disconsolate--"what made you think so, Mr. Roundjacket?" "Your physiognomy, my young friend. Are you happy with such a face as that?' "Such a face?" "Yes; I tell you that you look as if you had just parted with all your hopes--as if some adverse fate had deprived you of the privilege of living in this temple of Thespis and the muses. You could not look more doleful if I had threatened never to read any more of my great poem to you." "Couldn't?" said Verty, listlessly. "No." The young man only replied with a sigh. "There it is--you are groaning. Come; have you quarreled with your mistress?" Verty colored, and his head sank. "Please don't ask me, sir," he said; "I have not been very happy to-day--everything has gone wrong. I had better get to my work, sir,--I may forget it." And with a look of profound discouragement, which seemed to be reflected in the sympathizing face of Longears, who had stretched himself at his master's feet and now lay gazing at him, Verty opened the record he had been copying, and began to write. Roundjacket looked at him for a moment in silence, and then, with an expression of affection and pity, which made his grotesque face absolutely handsome, muttered something to himself, and followed Verty's example. When Roundjacket commenced writing, he did so with the regularity and accuracy of a machine which is set in motion by the turning of a crank, and goes on until it is stopped. This was the case on the present occasion, and Verty seemed as earnestly engaged in his own particular task. But appearances are deceptive--Indian nature will not take the curb like Anglo-Saxon--and a glance over Verty's shoulders will reveal the species of occupation which he became engaged in after finishing ten lines of the law paper. He was tracing with melancholy interest a picture upon the sheet beneath his pen; and this was a lovely little design of a young girl, with smiling lips, kind, tender eyes, and cheeks which were round and beautiful with mirth. With a stroke of the pen Verty added the waving hair, brushed back _a la Pompadour_ the foam of lace around the neck, and the golden drop in the little ear. Redbud looked at you from the paper, with her modest eyes and smiles--and for a moment Verty gazed at the creation of his pencil, sighing mournfully. Then, with a deeper sigh than before, he drew beneath this another sketch--the same head, but very different. The eyes now were cold and half closed--the lips were close together, and seemed almost disdainful--and as the gentle bending forward in the first design was full of pleasant _abandon_ and graceful kindness, so the head in the present sketch had that erect and frigid carriage which indicates displeasure.