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With what delight would'st thou have done so!—And yet, my child, unknowingly 'tis done;—for see,—know you that picture? (Drawing aside the curtain of the bed.)

(Rushing towards the picture.) 'Tis Charles!

Such was he in his sixteenth year.—But now how changed!—I shudder to think upon it—That sweetness, now fell misanthropy—that smile, despair!—Is't not so, Amelia?——It was upon his birth-day—in the bower of jessamine, that you drew that picture of him.

O, never will I forget that day!—Past and gone for ever! He sat just before me—a ray of the setting sun shone full upon his face—and his dark locks floated carelessly on his neck! O, in that hour 'twas all the woman here—the artist was forgot—the pencil fell from my hand—and my trembling lips fed, in imagination, on every line and track of that dear countenance!—My heart was full of the original.—The weak, inanimate