same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he
sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other. Accordingly,
he gave now a touch to Walter, and now to Elinor, and the features of one
and the other began to start forth so vividly, that it appeared as if his
triumphant art would actually disengage them from the canvas. Amid the
rich light and deep shade, they beheld their phantom selves. But, though
the likeness promised to be perfect, they were not quite satisfied with
the expression; it seemed more vague than in most of the painter's works.
He, however, was satisfied with the prospect of success, and being much
interested in the lovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to them,
in making a crayon sketch of their two figures. During their sittings,
he engaged them in conversation, and kindled up their faces with
characteristic traits, which, though continually varying, it was his
purpose to combine and fix. At length he announced, that at their next
visit both the portraits would be ready for delivery.

"If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in the few last touches
which I meditate," observed he, "these two pictures will be my very best
performances. Seldom, indeed, has an artist such subjects."

While speaking, he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, nor withdrew
it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes stronger hold of
the imagination, than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why
should it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons,
the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces, continually
present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, of ourselves, which we
glance at, and straightway forget them. But we forget them, only because
they vanish. It is the idea of duration--of earthly immortality--that