laughing, "Boston is a perilous abode for the poor gentleman. Are you
telling one of a painter, or a wizard?"

"In truth," answered he, "that question might be asked much more
seriously than you suppose. They say that he paints not merely a man's
features, but his mind and heart. He catches the secret sentiments and
passions, and throws them upon the canvas, like sunshine,--or perhaps, in
the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleans of infernal fire. It is
an awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of
enthusiasm. "I shall be almost afraid to sit to him."

"Walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed Elinor.

"For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look which
you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed. "There:
it is passing away now, but when you spoke, you seemed frightened to
death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?"

"Nothing, nothing," answered Elinor, hastily. "You paint my face with
your own fantasies. Well, come for me to-morrow, and we will visit this
wonderful artist."

But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a
remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face of
his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance with
what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of wedlock.
Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.

"A look!" said Elinor to herself. "No wonder that it startled him, if it
expressed what I sometimes feel. I know, by my own experience, how