Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened to the painter’s room punctually at the appointed hour to meet those pictured shapes which were to be their representatives with posterity.  The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they closed the door.  Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the room.  At the first glance through the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural attitudes and with all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight.

“There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “fixed in sunshine for ever.  No dark passions can gather on our faces.”

“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary change can sadden us.”

This was said while they were approaching and had yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures.  The painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors.  At intervals he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile with his pencil suspended over the sketch.  They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but without uttering a word.  At length Walter stepped forward, then back, viewing Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke.

“Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone.  “Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid the longer I look.  It is certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress, the features, all are the same, and yet something is altered.”

“Is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?” inquired the painter, now drawing near with irrepressible interest.

“The features are perfect Elinor,” answered Walter, “and at the first glance the expression seemed also hers; but I could fancy that the portrait has changed countenance while I have been looking at it.  The eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression.  Nay, it is grief and terror.  Is this like Elinor?”

“Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the painter.

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started.  Motionless and absorbed, fascinated, as it were, in contemplation of Walter’s portrait, Elinor’s face had assumed precisely the expression of which he had just been complaining.  Had she practised for whole hours before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so successfully.  Had the picture itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present aspect with stronger and more melancholy truth.  She appeared quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover.

“Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement, “what change has come over you?”