It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both theportraits at the same time， assigning as a reason， in themystical language which he sometimes used， that the facesthrew light upon each other. Accordingly， he gave now atouch to Walter and now to Elinor， and the features ofone and the other began to start forth so vividly that itappeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengagethem from the canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shadethey beheld their phantom selves， but， though the likenesspromised to be perfect， they were not quite satisfied withthe expression： it seemed more vague than in most ofthe painter’s works. He， however， was satisfied with theprospect of success， and， being much interested in thelovers， employed his leisure moments， unknown to them，in making a crayon sketch of their two figures. Duringtheir sittings he engaged them in conversation and kindledup their faces with characteristic traits， which， thoughcontinually varying， it was his purpose to combine and fix.
At length he announced that at their next visit both theportraits would be ready for delivery.
“If my pencil will but be true to my conception in thefew last touches which I meditate，” observed he， “thesetwo pictures will be my very best performances. Seldomindeed has an artist such subjects.” While speaking he stillbent his penetrative eye upon them， nor withdrew it tillthey had reached the bottom of the stairs.
Nothing in the whole circle of human vanities takesstronger hold of the imagination than this affair of havinga portrait painted. Yet why should it be so？ The lookingglass，the polished globes of the andirons， the mirror-likewater， and all other reflecting surfaces， continually presentus with portraits—or， rather， ghosts—of ourselves whichwe glance at and straightway forget them. But we forgetthem only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration—of earthly immortality—that gives such a mysteriousinterest to our own portraits.
Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling， andhastened to the painter’s room punctually at the appointedhour to meet those pictured shapes which were to be theirrepresentatives with posterity. The sunshine flashed afterthem into the apartment， but left it somewhat gloomy asthey closed the door. Their eyes were immediately attractedto their portraits， which rested against the farthest wallof the room. At the first glance through the dim light andthe distance， seeing themselves in precisely their naturalattitudes and with all the air that they recognized so well，they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight.
“There we stand，” cried Walter， enthusiastically， “fixedin sunshine for ever. No dark passions can gather on ourfaces.”
“No，” said Elinor， more calmly； “no dreary change cansadden us.”
This was said while they were approaching and had yetgained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The painter，after saluting them， busied himself at a table in completinga crayon sketch， leaving his visitors to form their ownjudgment as to his perfected labors. At intervals he senta glance from beneath his deep eyebrows， watching theircountenances in profile with his pencil suspended over thesketch. They had now stood some moments， each in frontof the other’s picture， contemplating it with entrancedattention， but without uttering a word. At length Walterstepped forward， then back， viewing Elinor’s portrait invarious lights， and finally spoke.
“Is there not a change？” said he， in a doubtful andmeditative tone. “Yes； the perception of it grows more vividthe longer I look. It is certainly the same picture that I sawyesterday； the dress， the features， all are the same， and yetsomething is altered.”
“Is， then， the picture less like than it was yesterday？”
inquired the painter， now drawing near with irrepressibleinterest.
“The features are perfect Elinor，” answered Walter， “andat the first glance the expression seemed also hers； but Icould fancy that the portrait has changed countenancewhile I have been looking at it. The eyes are fixed on minewith a strangely sad and anxious expression. Nay， it is griefand terror. Is this like Elinor？”
“Compare the living face with the pictured one，” saidthe painter.
Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress， and started.
Motionless and absorbed， fascinated， as it were， incontemplation of Walter’s portrait， Elinor’s face hadassumed precisely the expression of which he had just beencomplaining. Had she practised for whole hours before amirror， she could not have caught the look so successfully.
Had the picture itself been a mirror， it could not havethrown back her present aspect with stronger and moremelancholy truth. She appeared quite unconscious of thedialogue between the artist and her lover.
“Elinor，” exclaimed Walter， in amazement， “what changehas come over you？”
She did not hear him nor desist from her fixed gaze tillhe seized her hand， and thus attracted her notice； thenwith a sudden tremor she looked from the picture to theface of the original.
“Do you see no change in your portrait？” asked she.
“In mine？ None，” replied Walter， examining it. “But letme see. Yes； there is a slight change—an improvement，I think， in the picture， though none in the likeness. Ithas a livelier expression than yesterday， as if some brightthought were flashing from the eyes and about to beuttered from the lips. Now that I have caught the look， itbecomes very decided.”
While he was intent on these observations Elinor turnedto the painter. She regarded him with grief and awe， andfelt that he repaid her with sympathy and commiseration，though wherefore she could but vaguely guess.
“That look！” whispered she， and shuddered. “How cameit there？”