r perhaps, in
the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. It is
an awful gift," added Walter, lowering his voice from its tone of
enthusiasm. "I shall be almost afraid to sit to him."

"Walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed Elinor.

"For Heaven's sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint the look
which you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed.
"There! it is passing away now; but when you spoke, you seemed
frightened to death, and very sad besides. What were you thinking of?"

"Nothing, nothing!" answered Elinor, hastily. "You paint my face with
your own fantasies. Well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visit this
wonderful artist."

But when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a
remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face
of his mistress. It was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance
with what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of
wedlock. Yet Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart.

"A look!" said Elinor to herself. "No wonder that it startled him if
it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know by my own experience how
frightful a look may be. But it was all fancy. I thought nothing of it
at the time; I have seen nothing of it since; I did but dream it;" and
she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff in which she meant
that her portrait should be taken.

The painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native
artists who at a later period than this borrowed their colors from the
Indians and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts.
Perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged his
destiny, he might have chosen to belong to that school without a
master in the hope of being at least original, since there were no
works of art to imitate nor rules to follow. But he had been born and
educated in Europe. People said that he had studied the grandeur or
beauty of conception and every touch of the master-hand in all the
most famous pictures in cabinets and galleries and on the walls of
churches till there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn.
Art could add nothing to its lessons, but Nature might. He had,
therefore, visited a world whither none of his professional brethren
had preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images that were noble
and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to canvas. America was
too poor to afford other temptations to