Again the pretty white gown is loose--flowing and beautiful. The thought of the grand old Dame, proud of her beauty and proud of her ancient coronet, vanishes with the morning mist of the Easter-tide. Again the dainty lace that clings to her slender white and flower-like throat, softens and grows creamy and weblike, free from the bleachment and crystallization of a while ago. Again the face is barely more than pale. The deep color has faded away, leaving but a faint, delicate trace, and a pinky tinge which reaches out until it kisses the utmost tip of her perfect little ear. How deep, tender, and wondrous sad those eyes have grown! Down in their dark depths her very soul seems to tremble into sight. It is only one who has suffered who can have such eyes. And, in truth, it is worth almost a lifetime of suffering to look deep down into such eyes of sad beauty. She was but a pretty-faced girl; but now, behold! she is a beautiful woman. And she is weary, O, so weary with the long, hard battle within. But Fear and Doubt still dwell and share with Hope a place in the heart of the Youth. He finds it sweet comfort to believe that even if her answer be No, it may come from a sense of Duty. Love is Love always, but not so with Duty. For that which may be Duty to-day may not be Duty on the morrow. So the Youth of the Town longs for the coming of the morrow. Who wrote, and sent to her with those sweet red roses from some old-time garden, this, his Lover's letter, which she still is holding in her left hand, once again just a trifle tremulous? Who has asked this question of a woman's heart? Is he a man strong and noble, whom she does not love, yet does not wish to wound? Or is it some one less strong, less noble, who has her Love, although he be unworthy of it? And does Duty bid her make denial, even though it break her loving heart? Is it Regret, Duty, Love, or What? But still she gives no answer. And the Youth of the Town is still hoping, doubting, fearing. Ah, my sweet, sad-eyed Lady, what will your answer be? Sherley Place, Easter-tide, 1884. End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of a Picture, by Douglass Sherley