But it could have been
      neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the
      countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its
      half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the
      vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such
      idea—must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour
      perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted
      upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of
      its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of
      the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which,
      at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its
      former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut
      from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the
      paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
      designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint
      words which follow:

      “She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full
      of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and
      wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having
      already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and
      not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and
      frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things;
      hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet
      and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of
      the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for
      this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even
      his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly
      for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light
      dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the
      painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour,
      and from day to day. And he was a passionate, and wild, and moody
      man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that
      the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the
      health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but
      him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she
      saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and
      burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict
      her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and
      weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its
      resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not
      less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her
      whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the
      labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none
      into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of
      his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard
      the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints
      which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her
      who sate beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but
      little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint
      upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the
      flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was
      given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the
      painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but
      in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very
      pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed
      Life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved:—She was