fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!"

"This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he
be," continued Walter. "He troubles me. But the Virgin looks kindly at
us."

"Yes; but very sorrowfully, methinks," said Elinor.

The easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that had
been recently commenced. After a little inspection, they began to
recognize the features of their own minister, the Rev. Dr. Colman,
growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud.

"Kind old man!" exclaimed Elinor. "He gazes at me, as if he were about
to utter a word of paternal advice."

"And at me," said Walter, "as if he were about to shake his head and
rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. But so does the original. I
shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye, till we stand before
him to be married."

They now heard a footstep on the floor, and turning, beheld the painter,
who had been some moments in the room, and had listened to a few of their
remarks. He was a middle-aged man, with a countenance well worthy of his
own pencil. Indeed, by the picturesque, though careless arrangement of
his rich dress, and, perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among painted
shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself. His visitors were
sensible of a kindred between the artist and his works, and felt as if
one of the pictures had stepped from the canvas to salute them.