On their next meeting both felt constrained; and their conversation was not so free and tender as before. It took some weeks for the effect of Dora’s proposition, whatever it was, to wear off. But after that time the sunshine came back again, and was brighter and warmer than before. One day, it was perhaps four or five months after the little misunderstanding just mentioned, the old engraver was visited by a stranger, whose whole appearance marked him as either a foreigner or one who had lived abroad. He wanted him, he said, to copy on steel, in his most finished style, the miniature of a lady. As he mentioned his errand to the engraver, he drew from his pocket the miniature of a young and exquisitely beautiful woman, set in a costly gold locket. Mark Stilling took the picture, but the moment he looked at it his countenance changed. “Is it not a beautiful face?” said the stranger. “I have seen it before,” remarked the engraver, with a thoughtful air. “Have you?” was the quick inquiry. “Yes. But of whom is it a likeness?” asked the old man. “Of one,” said the stranger, “who has flitted before me, of late, the impersonation of all that is lovely in her sex. As she passes me in the street, I gaze after her as one would gaze at an angel. A skillful painter, at my request, has sketched her face, taking feature after feature, as he could fix them, until, at last, this image of beauty has grown under his pencil. And now I want it transferred to steel, lest some accident should deprive me of its possession.” While the stranger thus spoke, Stilling sat gazing upon the miniature with the air of one bound by a spell. And no wonder—for it was the image of his own child! and it seemed, as he looked into the pictured face intently, as if the lips would part and the voice of Dora fall upon his ears. Then he turned his eyes upon the dignified, princely looking stranger, and the thought came flashing through his mind that his dream of years was about being realized. Dora was the lovely unknown of whom he had spoken with so much enthusiasm; with whom he was so passionately enamored. “Will you do the work for me?” said the stranger, breaking in upon the old man’s revery. “Yes—yes,” answered Stilling. “How long do you want?” “Two months.” “So long?” “Yes, to do it well.” “Take, then, your own time, and charge your own price. Here are fifty dollars,” and the stranger handed the engraver some money. “I will call every day while the work is progressing, that I may look at the sweet picture upon which you are engaged.” “How large shall it be?” inquired the engraver. “Just the size of the miniature,” replied the stranger. Then rising, he said, as he bowed to Stilling, “I will see you again to-morrow about this hour.” On the next day, when the stranger called, Dora was sitting by her father. An exclamation of delight was checked upon his lips, as his eyes fell upon the beautiful girl; but his noble face expressed surprise and undisguised admiration.