"Alas! where shall we find truth?" asked Leonora; and then she added, in a melancholy but sweet tone, "Let us not approach painful subjects, my good friend. We cannot meet without thinking of them. If we speak of them we shall think of them still more. I know that truth is in my own heart--where else I know not." "Perhaps where you least think," replied the painter; "but you are right, lady. Could it do any good, I might speak even of the most painful things; but where the irrevocable seal is fixed it is vain to explain--vain to regret. You are as beautiful as ever, I see, but with that change which change of thought and feeling brings. I have come to paint your picture; and I can paint it now better than I could when we last met." "Indeed! How so?" asked Leonora. "Because it is easier to paint matter than spirit--angel or demon, as the case may be--which, transfusing itself through the whole frame, breathes from the face and animates every movement. Again, at other times, it leaves the human tenement vacant, or sits retired in a corner of the heart, pondering the bitterness of life. Mere animal life then acts and carries us through the business of existence; but the sentient, feeling soul is dead or entranced, and pervades not the face or limbs with that varying beauty which is so difficult for the painter to seize and to transfer. I can paint you better now than formerly; and the painting to the common eye will be more beautiful, but to mine and to the poet's there may be a lack of something--of that expression of soul which the features require for harmony--and yet it is not entirely wanting. When you first came in, there was a rigidity about your look, as if you mastered some emotion. Now there is more light, as if there were emotion still. You must have suffered agitation lately. Forgive me. I am a rough, plain-spoken man, too apt to give counsel where it is not sought, and to note feelings people would wish concealed." "You see too deeply and too well," replied Leonora; "but still I say, maestro, let us not converse on such things. The past is dead. The present, alas! has no life in it for me. Emotion is the most transient of all things with me. Like a stone dropped by a boy into a still lake, it may go deep but ripples the surface only for a moment, and all is still again. If you wish my portrait, take it; but let not our thoughts be saddened while the work is beneath your hand by memories of other days, when happiness gave that spirit to my face which, as you judge rightly, has departed for ever. Let us talk of art, of science--what you will, in short; for I have studied much since last we met, and can encounter you with more knowledge, but not less humility; but let us speak no more of buried feelings, the very ghosts of which bring fear and anguish with them." "Alas! that it should be so, sweet lady," replied Leonardo; "but, sad as may be your fate, there may be others, seemingly more happy, who are more miserable still.