Into the soft, dark eye there seemed to have crept a glitter, cold and almost unfeeling.  The fatal Shadow had hardened, but not altogether stolen away the beauty of that sweet mouth.  Even the loose-flowing gown seemed to have lost its easy grace, and stiffened into splendid and haughty folds, fit only for the form of some grand old Dame proud of her beauty and proud of her ancient coronet.  The very lace about her slender throat—­but a misty web of dainty and intricate work—­seemed to have crystallized and whitened, as if done with a sharp and skillful chisel.  The pale, pinky tinge about the perfect little ear had deepened into a more rosy hue, which had overspread the face—­barely more than pale—­with a deep color and a glow of emotion only half concealed.  Ah, was it a look of triumph? was it the consciousness of power?

The left hand, holding her Lover’s letter, had lost its somewhat tremulous look.  The fingers of the other hand had tightened about the pen, hovering over that unwritten page.  And, in short, she seemed ready to write the answer—­what will it be?  The heart of the Youth was full of Trouble.  Hope flickered up into an uncertain existence.  Now the Picture had grown hateful to his sight; so a silken curtain, in crimson folds, clung against and hid away the face of this Changeful Lady.

But no sooner was the curtain drawn, hiding from sight the lovely and beloved face, but an all-powerful desire brought him back again, and lo! the curtain was rudely thrust aside; but alas! there was no change.

When away from his room and the siren-like face behind its silken folds of crimson, he fretted to return and look again for a change wrought out by his brief absence; but there was none.

Hateful indeed the sight may have been of that changeful face, but it had grown to him absolutely necessary, and more pleasant, indeed, even when hard, cold, and unkind, than other faces not less beautiful smiling sweet unspoken words.

He slept in a curtained space near by, and often waked in the still watches of the after-midnight, with the Hope in his heart, flaring up into a flame and burning him with a desire for another sight of that fickle face.  Before the picture there hung a dim, red light, which burned all the night long.  It was a swinging lamp of many tangled chains and fretted Venetian metal work.  Once it had swung before an holy altar in an ancient Mexican town, where it had shed an unextinguished light throughout many years.  It was a holy thing; so the Youth had thought it worthy of a place before the deep-set Picture of the chimney-piece—­the shrine of his heart’s treasure.  Thus awakened out of troubled sleep, he often rose and stood before the covered Picture, beneath the swinging red light brought—­stolen, perhaps—­from the sacred sanctuary of that ancient church down in the land of Mexico.  Often, with Hope, Doubt, and Fear in his heart, he would turn away from before the untouched curtain.  “Useless, useless, useless,” would be the burden of his thought.