all see.

THOMAS L. HARRIS.

When Holden was left alone in his chamber, he sank into a seat and
covered his face with both hands. He remained in this position for
some time, and when he removed them, it was very pale, and exhibited
traces of strong emotion. He cast his eyes slowly around the
room, examining every part, not even the furniture escaping minute
observation. But of all the objects a portrait that hung over the
fire-place attracted the most attention. It was that of a man, past
the prime of life, and who in youth must have possessed considerable
beauty. The features were regular and well-formed, the forehead high
and broad, and the hair long and abundant, waving in curls over the
shoulders. What was the age designed to be portrayed, it was
difficult to determine with any degree of exactness, for there was a
contradiction between the parts which appeared scarcely reconcilable
with one another. Looking at the furrows that seamed the face, its
pallor, and the wrinkles of the brow, one would have said that the
original must have been a man between sixty and seventy, while the
hair, dark and glossy, indicated much less age. Yet, the perfection of
the drawing, the flesh-like tints that melted into each other, and
the air of reality that stamped the whole, proclaimed the portrait the
work of a master, and it was impossible to avoid the conviction that
it was an authentic likeness.

Holden placed the candle on the mantelpiece in such a manner as best
to throw light upon the picture, and stood at a little distance to
contemplate it. As he gazed, he began to fancy he discovered traits
which had at first escaped his observation. An expression of pain and
anxious sadness overspread the face, and gleams of light, like the
glare of insanity, shot from the eyes. So strong was the impression,
and so deeply was he affected, that as if incapable of enduring
the sight, he shut his eyes, and turning away, paced several times
backwards and forwards, without looking up. After a few turns, he
stopped before the portrait, and fixed his eyes upon it again, but
only for a moment, to resume his walk. This he did repeatedly, until
at last, with a groan, he dropped into a chair, where, crossing his
arms upon his breast, he remained for awhile lost in thought. Who can
say what were the reflections that filled his mind? Was he considering
whether the painter meant to delineate insanity, or whether it was not
a delusion springing fr