I picked it up, and, taking it to the window, examined it. It was
the picture of a young girl, dressed in the fashion of thirty years
ago--I mean thirty years ago then. I fear it must be nearer fifty,
speaking as from now--when our grandmothers wore corkscrew curls,
and low-cut bodices that one wonders how they kept from slipping
down. The face was beautiful, not merely with the conventional
beauty of tiresome regularity and impossible colouring such as one
finds in all miniatures, but with soul behind the soft deep eyes.
As I gazed, the sweet lips seemed to laugh at me, and yet there
lurked a sadness in the smile, as though the artist, in some rare
moment, had seen the coming shadow of life across the sunshine of
the face. Even my small knowledge of Art told me that the work was
clever, and I wondered why it should have lain so long neglected,
when as a mere ornament it was valuable. It must have been placed
in the book-case years ago by someone, and forgotten.
I replaced it among its dusty companions, and sat down once more to
my work. But between me and the fading light came the face of the
miniature, and would not be banished.
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