Rosilia had one most difficult task to perform. We have said she had a talent for painting: the branch in which she more particularly excelled was that of miniature; and her skill had been exerted with considerable success in producing a likeness of Douglas. In the depth of her grief upon ejaculating "I shall never see him more!" her locked-up treasure rushed upon her recollection. Flying to the bureau which contained it, she opened it with a trembling hand; and her eyes, still humid with tears, were riveted upon the portrait. She had often employed her pencil in tracing from copies features of the most accurate proportion; but they had never conveyed to her that agreeable something,—that charm, indefinable to her soul, portrayed in those before her.
How great had been her satisfaction when she first beheld her work complete, when she perceived in every trait Douglas himself—his very image!—the fine formed head, the dark and curly hair, the congeniality and harmony of features,—the tout ensemble exhibiting all that might be termed perfect in manly beauty. Such was the likeness she had seen advancing under her hand, wanting only the rapid changes of expression which the countenance of the original, glowing with animation, or clouded with sadness, betrayed,
