The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl.  It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully.  The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole.  The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque.  As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself.  But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me.  Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person.  I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea —­ must have prevented even its momentary entertainment.  Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait.  At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed.  I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me.  With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position.  The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories.  Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow: 

“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee.  And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter.  He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover.  It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride.  But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead.  But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day.  And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him.  Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and