But his eye suddenly falls on a curtain, in the recess farthest from the door—the edge of a curtain; for the object which this curtain conceals, is not visible from the chair in which he sits.
Verty rises, and goes into the recess, and looks.
The curtain falls over a picture—Verty raises it, and stands in admiration before the portrait, which it covered.
"What a lovely child!" he exclaims. "I have never seen a prettier little girl in all my life! What beautiful hair she has!"
And Verty, with the curtain in his left hand, blows away the dust from the canvas.
The portrait is indeed exquisite. The picture represents a child of two or three years of age, of rare and surpassing beauty. Over its white brow hang long yellow ringlets—the eyes dance and play—the ripe, ruddy lips, resembling cherries, are wreathed with the careless laughter of infancy. The child wears a little blue frock which permits two round, fat arms to be seen; and one of the hands grasps a doll, drawn to the life. There is so much freshness and reality about the picture, that Verty exclaims a second time, "What a lovely little girl!"
Thus absorbed in the picture, he does not hear a growling voice in the adjoining room—is not conscious of the heavy step advancing toward the room he occupies—does not even hear the door open as the new comer enters.
"Who can she be!" murmurs the young man; "not Mr. Rushton's little daughter—I never heard that he was married, or had any children. Pretty little thing!"
And Verty smiled.
Suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gruff, stern voice said: