"They are, sir," said the servant, adding, as he noticed that picturesque
aspect of which the painter could never divest himself, "and the
Portraits too!"

The guest was admitted into a parlor, communicating by a central door
with an interior room of the same size. As the first apartment was
empty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyes
were greeted by those living personages, as well as their pictured
representatives, who had long been the objects of so singular an
interest. He involuntarily paused on the threshold.

They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor were standing
before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich and
voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel with
one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. The pictures,
concealed for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor,
appearing to throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to be
disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had been almost
prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had successively
dwelt upon her countenance, deepening, with the lapse of time, into a
quiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now have made it the very
expression of the portrait. Walter's face was moody and dull, or
animated only by fitful flashes, which left a heavier darkness for their
momentary illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, and
thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally stood
absorbed.

The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approaching behind him, on
its progress towards its victims. A strange thought darted into his
mind. Was not his own the form in which that destiny had embodied