and winter, through youth and age, and life and death! if age and death must come."
He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded with delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, with a significant smile, if I had "any more portraits."
"No," replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath. But my portfolio was on the table; he took it up, and coolly sat down to examine its contents.
"Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches," cried I, "and I never let any one see them."
And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him; but he maintained his hold, assuring me that he "liked unfinished sketches of all things."
"But I hate them to be seen," returned I. "I can't let you have it, indeed!"
"Let me have its bowels then," said he; and just as I wrenched the portfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted the greater part of
