troubled fancy--"It is not, can not be an
actual Shadow; women may change, but surely not pictures."

The next day Autumn repented of its wanton folly, and called out with
Sunshine and Brightness for the return of the dead Summer. The light
fell on the face of the girl in the Picture, but it did not lift the
Shadow. Nor did the dead Summer return to gladden the heart of the
Autumn, full of too late and useless regret. "No, I am not certain,"
said the Youth, touched with a Doubt. It was only a touch, but his step
was heavy and a trifle less quick, as he went down the street to his
Duty of the day. Again he passed by the crowded shop window. The dealer
had filled the vacant corner; but he did not see, and he did not care to
see, what was there. For there was now only one picture in all the world
for this Youth of the Town with Hope in his heart; but something else
had crowded into his heart, and it was--Doubt. He went on his way and
about his duty with this one hopeful thought: "The nightfall will bring
a change, and the Shadow will have gone." But each day the Shadow
deepened, and the Youth carried with him a more troubled and a less
hopeful heart. All those who saw the Picture, and who had seen it
when first it came, now looked upon it with painful surprise, and
unhesitatingly said, "Your pretty-faced girl over the mantel yonder
is undoubtedly going to say, No."

Into the soft, dark eye there seemed to have crept a glitter, cold and
almost unfeeling. The fatal Shadow had hardened, but not altogether
stolen away the beauty of that sweet mouth. Even the loose-flowing gown
seemed to have lost its easy grace, and stiffened into splendid and
haughty folds, fit only for the form of some grand old Dame proud of her
beauty and proud of her ancient coronet. The very lace about her slender
throat--but a misty web of dainty and intricate work--seemed to have
crystallized and whitened, as if done with a sharp and skillful chisel.
The pale, pinky tinge about the perfect little ear had deepened into
a more rosy hue, which had overspread the face--barely more than
pale--with a deep color and a glow of emotion only half concealed.
Ah, was it a look of triumph? was it the consciousness of power?

The left hand, holding her Lover's letter, had lost its somewhat
tremulous look. The fingers of the other hand had tightened about the
pen, hovering over that unwritten page. And, in short, she seemed ready
to write the answer--what will it