There was still further proof of Drowne’s lunacy， if creditwere due to the rumour that he had been seen kneelingat the feet of the oaken lady， and gazing with a lover’spassionate ardour into the face that his own hands hadcreated. The bigots of the day hinted that it would be nomatter of surprise if an evil spirit were allowed to enterthis beautiful form， and seduce the carver to destruction.
The fame of the image spread far and wide. Theinhabitants visited it so universally， that， after a few daysof exhibition， there was hardly an old man or a childwho had not become minutely familiar with its aspect.
Even had the story of Drowne’s wooden image endedhere， its celebrity might have been prolonged for manyyears， by the reminiscences of those who looked upon itin their childhood， and saw nothing else so beautiful inafter life. But the town was now astounded by an event，the narrative of which has formed itself into one of themost singular legends that are yet to be met with inthe traditionary chimney-corners of the New Englandmetropolis， where old men and women sit dreaming of thepast， and wag their heads at the dreamers of the presentand the future.
One fine morning， just before the departure of theCynosure on her second voyage to Fayal， the commanderof that gallant vessel was seen to issue from his residencein Hanover street. He was stylishly dressed in a bluebroadcloth coat， with gold lace at the seams and buttonholes，an embroidered scarlet waistcoat， a triangular hat，with a loop and broad binding of gold， and wore a silverhilledhanger at his side. But the good captain mighthave been arrayed in the robes of a prince or the rags ofa beggar， without in either case attracting notice， whileobscured by such a companion as now leaned on hisarm. The people in the street started， rubbed their eyes，and either leaped aside from their path， or stood as iftransfixed to wood or marble in astonishment.
“Do you see it？ —do you see it？” cried one， with tremulouseagerness. “It is the very same！”
“The same？” answered another， who had arrived in townonly the night before. “What do you mean？ I see only asea-captain in his shore-going clothes， and a young lady ina foreign habit， with a bunch of beautiful flowers in herhat. On my word， she is as fair and bright a damsel as myeyes have looked on this many a day！”
“Yes； the same！ —the very same！” repeated the other.
“Drowne’s wooden image has come to life！”
Here was a miracle indeed！ Yet， illuminated by thesunshine， or darkened by the alternate shade of thehouses， and with its garments fluttering lightly in themorning breeze， there passed the image along the street.
It was exactly and minutely the shape， the garb， and theface， which the towns-people had so recently throngedto see and admire. Not a rich flower upon her head，not a single leaf， but had had its prototype in Drowne’swooden workmanship， although now their fragile gracehad become flexible， and was shaken by every footstepthat the wearer made. The broad gold chain upon theneck was identical with the one represented on the image，and glistened with the motion imparted by the rise andfall of the bosom which it decorated. A real diamondsparkled on her finger. In her right hand she bore a pearland ebony fan， which she flourished with a fantastic andbewitching coquetry， that was likewise expressed in all hermovements， as well as in the style of her beauty and theattire that so well harmonized with it. The face， with itsbrilliant depth of complexion， had the same piquancy ofmirthful mischief that was fixed upon the countenanceof the image， but which was here varied and continuallyshifting， yet always essentially the same， like the sunnygleam upon a bubbling fountain. On the whole， therewas something so airy and yet so real in the figure， andwithal so perfectly did it represent Drowne’s image， thatpeople knew not whether to suppose the magic woodetherealized into a spirit， or warmed and softened into anactual woman.
“One thing is certain，” muttered a Puritan of the oldstamp. “Drowne has sold himself to the devil； and doubtlessthis gay Captain Hunnewell is a party to the bargain.”
“And I，” said a young man who overheard him， “wouldalmost consent to be the third victim， for the liberty ofsaluting those lovely lips.”
“And so would I，” said Copley， the painter， “for theprivilege of taking her picture.”