Morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times.

Was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded?
Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair?
The pity of it! the pity of it! For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease.

It had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged.

And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?
Besides, was it really under his control?
Had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution?
Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all?
If thought could exercise its influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things?
Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?
But the reason was of no importance.

He would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power.