Just as the boy left the surburban residence of Miss Redbud, Mr. Roundjacket, who had been writing at his old dusty desk for an hour, raised his head, hearing a knock at the door.

He thrust the pen he had been using behind his ear, and bade the intruder "come in!"

One of the clients of Mr. Rushton made his appearance, and inquired for that gentleman. Mr. Roundjacket said that Mr. Rushton was "within," and rose to go and summon him, the visitor meanwhile having seated himself.

Mr. Roundjacket tapped at the door of Mr. Rushton's sanctum, but received no answer. He tapped louder—no reply. Somewhat irate at this, he kicked the door, and at the same moment opened it, preparing himself for the encounter.

An unusual sight awaited him.

Seated at his old circular table, covered with papers and books, Mr. Rushton seemed perfectly ignorant of his presence, as he had not heard the noise of the kick. His head resting upon his hand, the forehead drooping, the eyes half closed, the bosom shaken by piteous sighs, and the whole person full of languor and grief, no one would have recognized the rough, bearish Lawyer Rushton, or believed that there could be anything in common between him and the individual sitting at the table, so bowed down with sorrow.

Before him lay a little book, which he looked at through a mist of tears.

Roundjacket touched him on the shoulder, with a glance of wonder, and said:—

"You are sick, sir!—Mr. Rushton, sir!—there is somebody to see you."

In truth, the honest fellow could scarcely stammer out these broken words; and when Mr. Rushton, slowly returning to a consciousness of his whereabouts, raised his sorrowful eyes, Roundjacket looked at him with profound commiseration and sympathy.

"You have forgotten," said Mr. Rushton, in a low, broken voice, his pale lips trembling as he spoke,—"you don't keep account of the days as I do, Roundjacket."

"The days—I—"

"Yes, yes; it is natural for you to wonder at all this," said the weary looking man, closing the book, and locking it up in a secret drawer of the table; "let us dismiss the matter. Did you say any one wanted me? Yes, I can attend to business—my mind is quite clear—I am ready—I will see them now, Roundjacket."

And the head of the lawyer fell upon his arm, his bosom shaken with sobs.

Roundjacket looked at him no longer with so much surprise—he had understood all.

"Yes, yes, sir—I had forgotten," he muttered, "this is the 13th of
October."

Mr. Rushton groaned.

Roundjacket was silent for a moment, looking at his friend with deep sympathy.

"I don't wonder now at your feelings, sir," he said, "and I am sorry I intruded on—"

"No, no—you are a good friend," murmured the lawyer, growing calmer, "you will understand my feelings, and not think them strange. I am nearly over it now; it must come—oh! I am very wretched! Oh! Anne! my child, my child!"

And allowing his head to fall again, the rough, boorish man cried like a child, spite of the most violent efforts to regain his composure and master his emotion.

"Go," he said, in a low, broken voice, making a movement with his hand, "I was wrong—I cannot see any one to-day—I must be alone."

Roundjacket hesitated; moved dubiously from, then toward the lawyer; finally he seemed to have made up his mind, and going out he closed the door slowly behind him. As he did so, the key turned in the lock, and a stifled moan died away in the inner chamber.

"Mr. Rushton is unwell, and can't transact business to-day," said Roundjacket, softly, for he was thinking of the poor afflicted heart "within;" then he added, "you may call to-morrow, sir,"

The visitor went away, wondering at "Judge Rushton" being sick; such a thing had never before occurred in the recollection of the "oldest inhabitant." Just as he had disappeared, the door re-opened, and Verty made his appearance.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Roundjacket," said the boy, "for having run off so this morning, but you see I was after that pigeon. I'll stay till night, though, and work harder, and then it will be right again."

Instead of a very solemn and severe rebuke, Verty was surprised to hear Mr. Roundjacket say, in a low and thoughtful voice:—

"You need not work any to-day, Verty—you can go home if you like. Mr.
Rushton is unwell, and wishes to be quiet."

"Unwell?" said the boy, "you don't mean sick?"

"Not precisely, but indisposed."

"I will go and see him," said the boy, moving towards the door. Mr. Roundjacket interposed with his ruler, managing that instrument pretty much as a marshal does his baton.

"No," he said, "that is impossible, young man. But you need give yourself no uneasiness—Mr. Rushton is only a little out of sorts. You will find him quite well to-morrow. Return home now. There is your rifle."

These words were uttered with so much decision, that Verty made no further objection.

"Well," he said, with his thoughtful smile, "I'm very sorry Mr.
Rushton is sick, but I'm glad I can go and hunt some for ma mere.
Must I go now, sir?"

"Yes, and come early to-morrow, there's some work; and besides, your measure for the clothes must be taken."

Verty nodded indifferently, and taking up his rifle, went out, followed by Longears.