e the picture, communing with it, as
with his own heart, and abandoning himself to the spell of evil
influence that the painter had cast upon the features. Gradually his
eyes kindled; while, as Elinor watched the increasing wildness of his
face, her own assumed a look of terror; and when at last he turned upon
her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete.

"Our fate is upon us!" howled Walter. "Die!"

Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking to the ground,
and aimed it at her bosom. In the action and in the look and attitude
of each, the painter beheld the figures of his sketch. The picture,
with all its tremendous coloring was finished.

"Hold, madman!" cried he, sternly.

He had advanced from the door, and interposed himself between the
wretched beings, with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny
as to alter a scene upon the canvas. He stood like a magician,
controlling the phantoms which he had evoked.

"What!" muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed from fierce excitement
into silent gloom. "Does Fate impede its own decree?"

"Wretched lady!" said the painter. "Did I not warn you?"

"You did," replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the
quiet grief which it had disturbed. "But--I loved him!"

Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of one, or all
our deeds, be shadowed forth and set before us--some would call it Fate
and hurry onward, others be swept along by their passionate
desires--and none be turned aside by the PROPHETIC PICTURES.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

By WASHINGTON IRVING

(FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER)

"A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky."
--_Castle of Indolence_

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern
shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated
by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee, and where they always
prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas
when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly
known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given it, we are told,
in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from
the inv