His dreamy eyes, full of quiet pleasure, fixed themselves upon the far distance—he was thinking of Redbud.
He finally aroused himself, however, and began to work. Half an hour, an hour, another hour passed—Verty was breaking himself into the traces; he had finished his work.
He rose, and going to Mr. Rushton's door, knocked and opened it. The lawyer was not there; Verty looked round—his companion was absorbed in writing.
Verty sat down in the lawyer's arm-chair.
CHAPTER L.
HOW VERTY DISCOVERED A PORTRAIT, AND WHAT ENSUED.
For some time the young man remained motionless and silent, thinking of Redbud, and smiling with the old proverbial delight of lovers, as the memory of her bright sweet face, and kind eyes, came to his thoughts.
There was now no longer any doubt, assuredly, that he was what was called "in love" with Redbud; Verty said as much to himself, and we need not add that when this circumstance occurs, the individual who comes to such conclusion, is no longer his own master, or the master of his heart, which is gone from him.
For as it is observable that persons often imagine themselves affected with material ailments when there is no good ground for such a supposition; so, on the other hand, is it true that those who labor under the disease of love are the last to know their own condition. As Verty, therefore, came to the conclusion that he must be "in love" with Redbud, we may form a tolerably correct idea of the actual fact.
Why should he not love her? Redbud was so kind, so tender; her large liquid eyes were instinct with such deep truth and goodness; in her fresh, frank face there was such radiant joy, and purity, and love! Surely, a mortal sin to do otherwise than love her! And Verty congratulated himself on exemption from this sad sin of omission.