stions are hard to answer.

The Youth had loved the face when first he saw it in the crowded
shop-window of the Town. So did he love it now. Change can not kill
Love, if Love it be. What matter to the Youth even if the eye had grown
cold and a Shadow rested about the sweet mouth? Can such things as these
make denial to the heart of a Lover? Aye, to the heart of a Love-maker,
but not to the heart of one who loves. There is no limit to Love. A
thousand nays can not check its course if true Love it be.

But again there is a change with my Lady of the Picture. Does the heart
of the advancing Easter-tide hold the magic spell? Those who chance to
see her now note it, and think it strange. "No," they murmur, "will be
her answer. But it is her Duty that bids her, and she must obey."

The silken curtain is torn down and the light of day completes the
triple story of this, my Lady of the Picture. The cold glitter is gone
from about the eyes, and the old soft light has returned, and yet it is
not the same as of old. The fatal Shadow round about the sweet mouth is
but a bare outline--a shade, not a Shadow any more.

Again the pretty white gown is loose--flowing and beautiful. The thought
of the grand old Dame, proud of her beauty and proud of her ancient
coronet, vanishes with the morning mist of the Easter-tide. Again the
dainty lace that clings to her slender white and flower-like throat,
softens and grows creamy and weblike, free from the bleachment and
crystallization of a while ago. Again the face is barely more than pale.
The deep color has faded away, leaving but a faint, delicate trace, and
a pinky tinge which reaches out until it kisses the utmost tip of her
perfect little ear. How deep, tender, and wondrous sad those eyes have
grown! Down in their dark depths her very soul seems to tremble into
sight. It is only one who has suffered who can have such eyes. And, in
truth, it is worth almost a lifetime of suffering to look deep down into
such eyes of sad beauty. She was but a pretty-faced girl; but now,
behold! she is a beautiful woman. And she is weary, O, so weary with the
long, hard battle within.

But Fear and Doubt still dwell and share with Hope a place in the heart
of the Youth. He finds it sweet comfort to believe that even if her
answer be No, it may come from a sense of Duty. Love is Love always, but
not so with Duty. For that which may be Duty to-day may not be Duty on
the morrow.

So the Youth of the Town