The baby she had thought so ugly was in reality a white-winged angel, mild-eyed and pitying; while the hump-backed boy represented a patience so tender that it beautified everything upon which it shone. She thought she recognized in one of the pictures a frock of filmy lace that she remembered to have seen before; but the form it encased was strange to her, so ill-shapen and unlovely it looked; while the face was so repulsive that she shrank from it with horror. "Is that what I thought was the pretty girl?" she murmured tremulously. "Yes," replied the beam, simply. The next portrait was that of the silver-haired old lady whom Marjorie had thought so crooked and bowed. She saw now why her shoulders were bent. It was because of the mass of memories she carried,--memories gathered through a long and useful life. Her silver hair made a halo about her head. "The next is yours," breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will you look?" Marjorie gave a quick start, and her voice quivered sadly as she cried,-- "Oh, blessed sunbeam, don't force me to see it! Let me go back and try to be better before I see my likeness. I am afraid now. The outside prettiness is n't anything, unless one's spirit is lovely too; and I--I could not look, for I know--I know how hateful mine would be. I have learned about it now, and it's like a book; if the story the book tells is not beautiful, the pictures won't be good to see. I have learned about it now, and I know better than I did. May I--oh, may I try again?" She waited in an agony of suspense for the answer; and when it came, and the voice said gently, "It is your turn next," she cried aloud,-- "Not yet, oh, not yet! Let me wait. Let me try again." And there she was, with her cheeks all flushed and tear-stained, her hair in loose, damp curls about her temples, and her frock all rumpled and crushed in her mother's arms; and her mother was saying,-- "Bad dreams, sweetheart? You have had a fine, long nap; but it is your turn next, and I have had to wake you. Come, dear! Now we must see if we cannot get a good likeness of you,--just as you really are." WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL. It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it is-- But to go back.