H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colour
were a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair
were let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for
a picture of you. Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead is
like, with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows
are like, and the eyes are just like yours, when you look up and
say--"No--never!"

S. What then, do I always say--"No--never!" when I look up?

H. I don't know about that--I never heard you say so but once; but that
was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, "you could
never be mine." Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be
myself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave me: I think of
nothing, I have no feeling about any thing but thee: thy sweet image has
taken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to distraction.
Yet I could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: for then I might fancy
that I had thy love in return, which I cannot live without!

S. Do not, I beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is a
picture of.

H. I hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted in
oil on a gold ground) of some fine old Italian picture, Guido's or
Raphael's, but I think Raphael's. Some say it is a Madonna; others call
it a Magdalen, and say you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek,
though no tear is there. But it seems to me more like Raphael's St.
Cecilia, "with looks commercing with the skies," than anything
else.--See, Sarah, how beautiful it is! Ah! dear girl, these are the