Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes stronger hold of the imagination, than this affair of having a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so? The looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces, continually present us with portraits, or rather ghosts, of ourselves, which we glance at, and straightway forget them. But we forget them, only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration--of earthly immortality--that gives such a mysterious interest to our own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened to the painter’s room, punctually at the appointed hour, to meet those pictured shapes, which were to be their representatives with posterity. The sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy, as they closed the door. Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the room. At the first glance, through the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural attitudes, and with all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight. “There we stand,” cried Walter, “enthusiastically, fixed in sunshine forever! No dark passions can gather on our faces!” “No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary change can sadden us.” This was said while they were approaching, and had yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors. At intervals, he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile, with his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but without uttering a word. At length, Walter stepped forward,--then back,--viewing Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke. “Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone. “Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid, the longer I look. It is certainly the same picture that I saw yesterday; the dress,--the features,--all are the same; and yet something is altered.” “Is then the picture less like than it was yesterday?” inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible interest. “The features are perfect, Elinor,” answered Walter, “and, at the first glance, the expression seemed also hers. But, I could fancy that the portrait has changed countenance, while I have been looking at it. The eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression. Nay, it is grief and terror! Is this like Elinor?” “Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the painter.