I opened my writing-desk in a great flutter.  The doctor selected the largest sheet of paper and the broadest-nibbed pen he could find, and wrote in majestic round-text letters, with alternate thin and thick strokes beautiful to see, the two cabalistic words

After dark.

We all three laid our heads together over the paper, and in breathless silence studied the effect of the round-text:  William raising his green shade in the excitement of the moment, and actually disobeying the doctor’s orders about not using his eyes, in the doctor’s own presence!  After a good long stare, we looked round solemnly in each other’s faces and nodded.  There was no doubt whatever on the subject after seeing the round-text.  In one happy moment the doctor had hit on the right name.

“I have written the title-page,” said our good friend, taking up his hat to go.  “And now I leave it to you two to write the book.”

Since then I have mended four pens and bought a quire of letter-paper at the village shop.  William is to ponder well over his stories in the daytime, so as to be quite ready for me “after dark.”  We are to commence our new occupation this evening.  My heart beats fast and my eyes moisten when I think of it.  How many of our dearest interests depend upon the one little beginning that we are to make to-night!

PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST STORY.

Before I begin, by the aid of my wife’s patient attention and ready pen, to relate any of the stories which I have heard at various times from persons whose likenesses I have been employed to take, it will not be amiss if I try to secure the reader’s interest in the following pages, by briefly explaining how I became possessed of the narrative matter which they contain.

Of myself I have nothing to say, but that I have followed the profession of a traveling portrait-painter for the last fifteen years.  The pursuit of my calling has not only led me all through England, but has taken me twice to Scotland, and once to Ireland.  In moving from district to district, I am never guided beforehand by any settled plan.  Sometimes the letters of recommendation which I get from persons who are satisfied with the work I have done for them determine the direction in which I travel.  Sometimes I hear of a new neighborhood in which there is no resident artist of ability, and remove thither on speculation.  Sometimes my friends among the picture-dealers say a good word on my behalf to their rich customers, and so pave the way for me in the large towns.  Sometimes my prosperous and famous brother-artists, hearing of small commissions which it is not worth their while to accept, mention my name, and procure me introductions to pleasant country houses.  Thus I get on, now in one way and now in another, not winning a reputation or making a fortune, but happier, perhaps, on the whole, than many men who have got both the one and the other.  So, at least, I try to think now, though I started in my youth with as high an ambition as the best of them.  Thank God, it is not my business here to speak of past times and their disappointments.  A twinge of the old hopeless heartache comes over me sometimes still, when I think of my student days.