Now the Youth and the Afternoon Shadows together came and feasted on the beauty of that Maiden’s face.  The Shadows, without booty, fled away into the night.  But not so with the Youth.  In triumph he brought it to the favored room of his own dear home; and always thereafter this Picture gleamed in beauty from out its chimney-piece setting of ebony and old cherry.

She was always pretty, sometimes beautiful, but not always the same, this my Lady of the Picture.  She was indeed a changeful Lady, as the story will tell.  Those who saw her face when first she was given the place of honor in the home of this Youth, with Hope in his heart, all said, and with one accord, “There is but one answer for her to make, and that one answer is, Yes.”

The Easter-tide growing old, and the Summer time new and beautiful, brought no change.  The last light of each day fell on the clear-cut and delicate face, gilded the dark hair with a deep russet brown, played about the sweet mouth—­and was gone, leaving her with answer yet ungiven.

The first fire of the Autumn crackled and glowed on the tiled hearth, and threw a Shadow on the face of the pretty girl in the Picture; and from that moment there was a change.  “But it is only a Shadow from the fire-light glow,” said the Youth of the Town.  But something within whispered, “You are wrong; she is going to say, No.”

Again and again the words repeated themselves, clearly and distinctly, “You are wrong! you are wrong! you are wrong!” Then vaguely and almost inaudibly, “She is going to say, No;” with his own voice he made effort to drown the words of that fateful refrain.  “It is the idle, spiteful chatter of some evil spirit.  My heart is full of Hope, and I will not believe it.”  But that night, alone with his book and the face over the fire, only embers on the hearth—­the Shadow was still there.  But he said that it was a wild and troubled fancy—­“It is not, can not be an actual Shadow; women may change, but surely not pictures.”

The next day Autumn repented of its wanton folly, and called out with Sunshine and Brightness for the return of the dead Summer.  The light fell on the face of the girl in the Picture, but it did not lift the Shadow.  Nor did the dead Summer return to gladden the heart of the Autumn, full of too late and useless regret.  “No, I am not certain,” said the Youth, touched with a Doubt.  It was only a touch, but his step was heavy and a trifle less quick, as he went down the street to his Duty of the day.  Again he passed by the crowded shop window.  The dealer had filled the vacant corner; but he did not see, and he did not care to see, what was there.  For there was now only one picture in all the world for this Youth of the Town with Hope in his heart; but something else had crowded into his heart, and it was—­Doubt.  He went on his way and about his duty with this one hopeful thought:  “The nightfall will bring a change, and the Shadow will have gone.”  But each day the Shadow deepened, and the Youth carried with him a more troubled and a less hopeful heart.  All those who saw the Picture, and who had seen it when first it came, now looked upon it with painful surprise, and unhesitatingly said, “Your pretty-faced girl over the mantel yonder is undoubtedly going to say, No.”