The third Easter-tide comes with its brightness, its flowers, and its Hopes—­yet my Lady of the Picture has not changed.  Still that same relentless look; still that premonition of a No not yet said; still in her left hand she holds the letter; still in her right hand the pen, and the page beneath it is yet guiltless of a word.

But frowns and relentless looks have not put to flight the remnant of Hope in the heart of the Youth.  “It is only a picture.  Why should I trouble?” he said.

But words are easy, and many questions are hard to answer.

The Youth had loved the face when first he saw it in the crowded shop-window of the Town.  So did he love it now.  Change can not kill Love, if Love it be.  What matter to the Youth even if the eye had grown cold and a Shadow rested about the sweet mouth?  Can such things as these make denial to the heart of a Lover?  Aye, to the heart of a Love-maker, but not to the heart of one who loves.  There is no limit to Love.  A thousand nays can not check its course if true Love it be.

But again there is a change with my Lady of the Picture.  Does the heart of the advancing Easter-tide hold the magic spell?  Those who chance to see her now note it, and think it strange.  “No,” they murmur, “will be her answer.  But it is her Duty that bids her, and she must obey.”

The silken curtain is torn down and the light of day completes the triple story of this, my Lady of the Picture.  The cold glitter is gone from about the eyes, and the old soft light has returned, and yet it is not the same as of old.  The fatal Shadow round about the sweet mouth is but a bare outline—­a shade, not a Shadow any more.

Again the pretty white gown is loose—­flowing and beautiful.  The thought of the grand old Dame, proud of her beauty and proud of her ancient coronet, vanishes with the morning mist of the Easter-tide.  Again the dainty lace that clings to her slender white and flower-like throat, softens and grows creamy and weblike, free from the bleachment and crystallization of a while ago.  Again the face is barely more than pale.  The deep color has faded away, leaving but a faint, delicate trace, and a pinky tinge which reaches out until it kisses the utmost tip of her perfect little ear.  How deep, tender, and wondrous sad those eyes have grown!  Down in their dark depths her very soul seems to tremble into sight.  It is only one who has suffered who can have such eyes.  And, in truth, it is worth almost a lifetime of suffering to look deep down into such eyes of sad beauty.  She was but a pretty-faced girl; but now, behold! she is a beautiful woman.  And she is weary, O, so weary with the long, hard battle within.

But Fear and Doubt still dwell and share with Hope a place in the heart of the Youth.  He finds it sweet comfort to believe that even if her answer be No, it may come from a sense of Duty.  Love is Love always, but not so with Duty.  For that which may be Duty to-day may not be Duty on the morrow.