After the marriage of Walter and Elinor the pictures formed the two most splendid ornaments of their abode.  They hung side by side, separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet always returning the gaze of the spectator.  Travelled gentlemen who professed a knowledge of such subjects reckoned these among the most admirable specimens of modern portraiture, while common observers compared them with the originals, feature by feature, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness.  But it was on a third class—­neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but people of natural sensibility—­that the pictures wrought their strongest effect.  Such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming interested, would return day after day and study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic volume.  Walter Ludlow’s portrait attracted their earliest notice.  In the absence of himself and his bride they sometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intended to throw upon the features, all agreeing that there was a look of earnest import, though no two explained it alike.  There was less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s picture.  They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom and alien from the natural temperament of their youthful friend.  A certain fanciful person announced as the result of much scrutiny that both these pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling in Elinor’s countenance bore reference to the more vivid emotion—­or, as he termed it, the wild passion—­in that of Walter.  Though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch in which the action of the two figures was to correspond with their mutual expression.

It was whispered among friends that day by day Elinor’s face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness which threatened soon to render her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture.  Walter, on the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter had given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within.  In course of time Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk wrought with flowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels before the pictures, under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues or the light dim them.  It was enough.  Her visitors felt that the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn nor the portraits mentioned in her presence.

Time wore on, and the painter came again.  He had been far enough to the north to see the silver cascade of the Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast round of cloud and forest from the summit of New England’s loftiest mountain.  But he did not profane that scene by the mockery of his art.  He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur