"You never came for those last sittings, Horton; my picture is not finished yet." "You see, I got another job more to my taste than posturin’." "Are you working in the neighborhood?" "No; I am on my way to the Swindawl mines. Do you live in these yer parts?" "Yes. You know the old church? I live in the tower." "Rum place, that; passed it to-day." "If you want to earn a little money to pay your travelling expenses, I should like to finish that picture." The man did not answer, but stretched his great limbs and yawned. "It’s blasted cold for the season." Graham nodded assent, blowing a great cloud of tobacco-smoke from his lips, and composing in his mind, meanwhile, a picture in which this wild-looking fellow, with his rough hair and coarse, strong outlines, formed the central figure. He was of a low type of humanity, with a narrow forehead and large, heavy features; his face was tanned where the skin was visible, the heavy beard growing high up on the cheeks, leaving little uncovered surface. His clothes were somewhat dilapidated, but his wide sombrero hat and high boots were strong and whole. His figure was superbly developed, and Herculean in type. As he sat crouching on the floor, hugging his knees, his back braced against the wall behind him, he nodded wearily, and, after various abortive attempts at conversation, finally fell into a sound sleep, his head resting against the wall behind him. Graham took a charred brand from the hearth, and with this rough tool drew, on a smooth board in the side of the cabin, a sketch of the man before him. As he looked narrowly at his model, he perceived that his face was disfigured by some recent scratches from which the blood was still unwashed. They were got while riding through a thorny thicket, the artist fancied, and thought no more about them, touching in the details of the desolate background. The man’s expression was hardly human in his sleep, the fierce animal face was so stupid and brutish. It is wonderful how character is expressed in a sleeping countenance. The studied or unconscious control which we hold over our features when awake is overthrown in slumber, and the real nature is seen with no polite restraint or deceitful mask. A beautiful woman is beautiful no longer while sleeping, if she have a bad heart. It is a terrible thing to look upon one who is dear to us in sleep. Even when the countenance shadows forth holy dreams, it is awful to watch its still composure, so like death, and to feel that impassable distance between the unfettered soul and our own earth-bound spirit,--that distance which, but for the briefest spaces, is never bridged over in our whole lives, though they flow quietly side by side through peaceful days and happy nights.