“Is it not a beautiful face?” said the stranger.
“I have seen it before,” remarked the engraver, with a thoughtful air.
“Have you?” was the quick inquiry.
“Yes. But of whom is it a likeness?” asked the old man.
“Of one,” said the stranger, “who has flitted before me, of late, the impersonation of all that is lovely in her sex. As she passes me in the street, I gaze after her as one would gaze at an angel. A skillful painter, at my request, has sketched her face, taking feature after feature, as he could fix them, until, at last, this image of beauty has grown under his pencil. And now I want it transferred to steel, lest some accident should deprive me of its possession.”
While the stranger thus spoke, Stilling sat gazing upon the miniature with the air of one bound by a spell. And no wonder—for it was the image of his own child! and it seemed, as he looked into the pictured face intently, as if the lips would part and the voice of Dora fall upon his ears. Then he turned his eyes upon the dignified, princely looking stranger, and the thought came flashing through his mind that his dream of years was about being realized. Dora was the lovely unknown of whom he had spoken with so much enthusiasm; with whom he was so passionately enamored.
“Will you do the work for me?” said the stranger, breaking in upon the old man’s revery.
“Yes—yes,” answered Stilling.
“How long do you want?”
“Two months.”