Thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almostcry aloud as he passed through the toilsome street amongpeople that knew not of his reveries nor could understandnor care for them. It is not good for man to cherish asolitary ambition. Unless there be those around him bywhose example he may regulate himself， his thoughts，desires and hopes will become extravagant and he thesemblance—perhaps the reality—of a madman. Readingother bosoms with an acuteness almost preternatural， thepainter failed to see the disorder of his own.
“And this should be the house，” said he， looking upand down the front before he knocked. “Heaven helpmy brains！ That picture！ Methinks it will never vanish.
Whether I look at the windows or the door， there it isframed within them， painted strongly and glowing in therichest tints—the faces of the portraits， the figures andaction of the sketch！”
He knocked.
“The portraits—are they within？” inquired he of thedomestic； then， recollecting himself， “Your master andmistress—are they at home？”
“They are， sir，” said the servant， adding， as he noticedthat picturesque aspect of which the painter could neverdivest himself， “and the portraits too.”
The guest was admitted into a parlor communicating bya central door with an interior room of the same size. Asthe first apartment was empty， he passed to the entranceof the second， within which his eyes were greeted by thoseliving personages， as well as their pictured representatives，who had long been the objects of so singular an interest.
He involuntarily paused on the threshold.
They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinorwere standing before the portraits， whence the former hadjust flung back the rich and voluminous folds of the silkencurtain， holding its golden tassel with one hand， while theother grasped that of his bride. The pictures， concealedfor months， gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor，appearing to throw a sombre light across the room ratherthan to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That ofElinor had been almost prophetic. A pensiveness， andnext a gentle sorrow， had successively dwelt upon hercountenance， deepening with the lapse of time into aquiet anguish. A mixture of affright would now havemade it the very expression of the portrait. Walter’s facewas moody and dull or animated only by fitful flasheswhich left a heavier darkness for their momentaryillumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait， andthence to his own， in the contemplation of which hefinally stood absorbed.
The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approachingbehind him on its progress toward its victims. A strangethought darted into his mind. Was not his own the formin which that Destiny had embodied itself， and he a chiefagent of the coming evil which he had foreshadowed？
Still， Walter remained silent before the picture，communing with it as with his own heart and abandoninghimself to the spell of evil influence that the painter hadcast upon the features. Gradually his eyes kindled， whileas Elinor watched the increasing wildness of his face herown assumed a look of terror； and when， at last， he turnedupon her， the resemblance of both to their portraits wascomplete.
“Our fate is upon us！” howled Walter. “Die！”
Drawing a knife， he sustained her as she was sinking tothe ground， and aimed it at her bosom. In the action andin the look and attitude of each the painter beheld thefigures of his sketch. The picture， with all its tremendouscoloring， was finished.
“Hold， madman！” cried he， sternly.
He had advanced from the door and interposed himselfbetween the wretched beings with the same sense ofpower to regulate their destiny as to alter a scene upon thecanvas. He stood like a magician controlling the phantomswhich he had evoked.
“What！” muttered Walter Ludlow as he relapsed fromfierce excitement into sullen gloom. “Does Fate impede itsown decree？”
“Wretched lady，” said the painter， “did I not warn you？”
“You did，” replied Elinor， calmly， as her terror gave placeto the quiet grief which it had disturbed. “But I lovedhim.”
Is there not a deep moral in the tale？ Could the result ofone or all our deeds be shadowed forth and set before us，some would call it fate and hurry onward， others be sweptalong by their passionate desires， and none be turned asideby the prophetic pictures.
