64 ]DaiD.1g Tri'Fe fi- rgy LSeaey li.ee
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ouglasI
16MD
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John P. Morton & Co., Louisville,
1B4,
Copyrighted 1,394,
By Douglass Sherley.
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"teasr 4Ctef flne toel fvoai'K a e.ict"tz jewelo
cou , tOt fmij. froilt 11e . It
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HERE was a colored crayon
in a crowded shop - window.
Other people passed it by, but a
Youth of the Town, with Hope in
his heart, leaned over the guard-rail
and looked upon the beauty of that
pictured face long and earnestly.
It was the head of a pretty girl with
dark hair and dark eyes. She was
clad in a dainty white gown, loose-
flowing and beautiful. In her left
hand, slender and uplifted, a letter;
in her right a pen, and beneath it a
spotless page.
She was seated within the shadow
of a white marble chimney-piece richly
carved with Cupids, fluttering, kneel-
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ing, supplicating; with arrows new,
broken, and mended; with quivers
full, depleted, and empty. The great,
broad shelf above her pretty head was
laden with rare and artistic treasures.
A vase from India; a costly fan from
China; a dark and mottled bit of color
in an ancient frame of tarnished gold,
done by some Flemish master of the
long-ago. Beyond all this, a ground
of shadowy green, pale, cool, and de-
licious. On the table, near the spotless
page and the dear pen-clasping hand,
a bunch of flowers; not a mass of ugly
blooms, opulent and oppressive, but a
few garden roses, old - fashioned and
exceeding sweet, blushing to their ut-
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most red, having found themselves so
unexpectedly brought into the pres-
ence of this pretty girl.
This, in outline, was the picture.
The dealer had written on a slip of
paper, in large, rude letters,
Her ay9Wer: yes, or 7o.
It was a frameless crayon, thrust
aside and somewhat overshadowed by
a huge and garish thing in gaudy-
flowered gilt, which easily caught and
held the eye of the busy throng.
The Youth passed on to his duty
of the day with Hope in his heart.
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1 ight grew his heavy task, and the
drudgery of his work was forgotten-
he was haunted by the sight of that
face in the Picture.' The softness of
the eye, the sweetness of the mouth,
or something, made the Youth of the
noisy Town believe her answer would
surely be -Yes.
Now the Youth and the Afternoon
Shadows together came and feasted
on the beauty of that Maiden's face.
The Shadows, without booty, fled
away into the night. But not so with
the Youth. In triumph he brought
it to the favored room of his own dear
home; and always thereafter this Pic-
ture gleamed in beauty from out its
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chimney-piece setting
old cherry.
She was always pretty,
of ebony and
sometimes
beautiful, but not always the same,
this my Lady of the
Picture.
was indeed a changeful Lady, as the
will tell.
Those who saw her
face when first she was given the place
of honor in the home of this Youth,
with Hope
in his heart, all said, and
with one accord, "There is but one
answer for her to make, and that one
answer is, Yes."
The Easter-tide growing
old, and
the Summer time new and beautiful,
brought no
change.
The last light
of each day fell on the clear-cut and
VII
story
She
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delicate face, gilded the dark hair with
a deep russet brown, played about the
sweet mouth-and was gone, leaving
her with answer yet ungiven.
The first fire of the Autumn crack-
led and glowed on the tiled hearth,
and threw a Shadow on the face of
the pretty girl in the Picture; and
from that moment there was a change.
"But it is only a Shadow from the
fire-light glow," said the Youth of the
Town. But something within whis-
pered, "You are wrong; she is going
to say, No."
Again and again the words repeat-
ed themselves, clearly and distinctly,
"You are wrong! you are wrong! you
Vill
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are wrong!" Then vaguely and al-
most inaudibly, "She is going to say,
No ;" with his own voice he made effort
to drown the words of that fateful re-
frain. "It is the idle, spiteful chatter
of some evil spirit. My heart is full
of Hope, and I will not believe it."
But that night, alone with his book
and the face over the fire, only embers
on the hearth-tie Shadow was sti/i
there. But he said that it was a wild
and troubled fancy-" It is not, can
not be an actual Shadow; women may
change, but surely not pictures."
The next day Autumn repented of
its wanton folly, and called out with
Sunshine and Brightness for the re-
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turn of the dead Summer. The light
fell on the face of the girl in the Pic-
ture, but it did not lift the Shadow.
Nor did the dead Summer return to
gladden the heart of the Autumn, full
of too late and useless regret. "No,
I am not certain," said the Youth,
touched with a Doubt. It was only a
touch, but his step was heavy and a
trifle less quick, as he went down the
street to his Duty of the day. Again he
passed by the crowded shop window.
The dealer had filled the vacant cor-
ner; but he did not see, and he did
not care to see, what was there. For
there was now only one picture in all
the world for this Youth of the Town
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with Hope in his heart; but some-
thing else had crowded into his heart,
and it was-Doubt.
He went on his
way and about his duty with this one
hopeful thought: "The
nightfall will
bring a change, and the Shadow will
have gone."
But each day the Shad-
ow deepened, and the Youth carried
with him a more troubled and a less
hopeful heart. All those who saw the
Picture, and who had seen it
when
first it came, now looked upon it with
painful
surprise, and unhesitatingly
said, "Your pretty-faced girl over the
mantel yonder is undoubtedly going
to say, No."
Into the soft, dark eye there seemed
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to have crept a glitter, cold and almost
unfeeling. The fatal Shadow had har-
dened, but not altogether stolen away
the beauty of that sweet mouth. Even
the loose-flowing gown seemed to have
lost its easy grace, and stiffened into
splendid and haughty folds, fit only
for the form of some grand old Dame
proud of her beauty and proud of her
ancient coronet. The very lace about
her slender throat-but a misty web
of dainty and intricate work-seemed
to have crystallized and whitened, as
if done with a sharp and skillful chis-
el. The pale, pinky tinge about the
perfect little ear had deepened into a
more rosy hue, which had overspread
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the face-barely more than pale-with
a deep color and a glow of emotion
only half concealed. Ah, was it a look
of triumph was it the consciousness
of power
The left hand, holding her Lover's
letter, had lost its somewhat tremu-
lous look. The fingers of the other
hand had tightened about the pen,
hovering over that unwritten page.
And, in short, she seemed ready to
write the answer-what will it be
The heart of the Youth was full of
Trouble. Hope flickered up into an
uncertain existence. Now the Pict-
uire had grown hateful to his sight;
so a silken curtain, in crimson folds,
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clung against and hid away the face
of this Changeful Lady.
But no sooner was the curtain
drawnl, hiding from sight the lovely
and beloved face, but an all-powerful
desire brought him back again, and
lo! the curtain was rudely thrust
aside; but alas! there was no change.
When away from his room and the
siren-like face behind its silken folds
of crimson, he fretted to return and
look again for a change wrought out
by his brief absence; but there was
none.
Hateful indeed the sight may have
been of that changeful face, but it
had grown to him absolutely neces-
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sary, and more pleasant, indeed, even
when hard, cold, and unkind, than
other faces not less beautiful smiling
sweet unspoken words.
He slept in a curtained space
near by, and often waked in the still
watches of the after-midnight, with
the Hope in his heart, flaring up
into a flame and burning him with
a desire for another sight of that
fickle face. Before the picture there
hung a dim, red light, which burned
all the night long. It was a swing-
ing lamp of many tangled chains and
fretted Venetian metal work. Once
it had swung before an holy altar in
an ancient Mexican town, where it
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had shed an unextinguished light
throughout many years. It was a
holy thing; so the Youth had thought
it worthy of a place before the deep-
set Picture of the chimney- piece-
the shrine of his heart's treasure.
Thus awakened out of troubled sleep,
he often rose and stood before the
covered Picture, beneath the swing-
ing red light brought-stolen, per-
haps-from the sacred sanctuary of
that ancient church down in the
land of Mexico. Often, with Hope,
Doubt, and Fear in his heart, he
would turn away from before the un-
touched curtain. " Useless, useless,
useless," would be the burden of his
thought.
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HE third Easter- tide comes
with its brightness, its flowers,
and its Hopes-yet my Lady of the
Picture has not changed.
Still that
same relentless look; still that
monition of a
No not yet said;
in her left hand she holds the letter;
still in her right hand the pen,
and
the page beneath
it is yet guiltless
of a word.
But frowns and relentless looks
have not put to flight the remnant
of Hope in the heart of the Youth.
"It is only a picture.
I trouble "
Why should
he said.
But words are easy, and many
questions are hard to answer.
XVII
pre-
still
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The Youth had loved the face
when first he saw it in the crowded
shop-window of the Town. So did
he love it now. Change can not kill
Love, if Love it be. What matter to
the Youth even if the eye had grown
cold and a Shadow rested about the
sweet mouth Can such things as
these make denial to the heart of a
Lover Aye, to the heart of a Love-
maker, but not to the heart of one
who loves. There is no limit to
Love. A thousand nays can not
check its course if true Love it be.
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UT again there is a change
with my Lady of the Picture.
Does the heart of the advancing
Easter- tide hold the magic spell
Those who chance to see her now
note it, and think it strange. "No,"
they murmur, "will be her answer.
But it is her Duty that bids her, and
she must obey."
The silken curtain is torn down
and the light of day completes the
triple story of this, my Lady of the
Picture. The cold glitter is gone
from about the eyes, and the old
soft light has returned, and yet it is
not the same as of old. The fatal
Shadow round about the sweet mouth
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is but a bare outline-a shade, not a
Shadow any more.
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
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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 loo