"Tell me not of lights and shades.

The pictures I see have a look of paint; but yours looks like life.

Oh, that she were here, as this _wonderful_ image of hers is.

I would speak to her.

I am not wise or learned; but orators never pleaded as I would plead to her for my Ernest's heart." Still her eye glanced upon the picture; and I suppose her heart realized an actual presence, though her judgment did not; for by some irresistible impulse she sank slowly down and stretched her clasped hands toward it, while sobs and words seemed to break direct from her bursting heart.