Heaven alone knows what would have been the end of all this, but for the providential appearance of Miss Barry and Betty upon the scene. ‘My dear Susan, have you heard? But, of course, Mr. Crosby has told you. Good gracious! what is the matter with your head, child?’ And, indeed, Susan’s hair has again found freedom, and is flowing down her back in happy, shining waves. ‘I have just washed it,’ says Susan shamefacedly. ‘An admirable deed,’ says Miss Barry, who is in too great a state of delight to lecture with her usual fluency, and who, indeed, feels inclined to be lenient. ‘But you should not come into publicity, my dear child, until it is dry and carefully dressed again. However’—beaming upon Crosby, who begins to quite like her—‘youth will be youth, you know. And what do you think, Susan? There is a man down from the best photographer’s in Dublin—from Chancellor’s, I believe. And I am thinking of having our pictures taken, if only to send some copies to your uncle in Australia—my brother, you know, my dear. He will be so pleased to get them; and, really, it is a grand opportunity. Of course, you, Mr. Crosby, have had yours taken in every quarter of the globe, but we country mice seldom get the chance of seeing ourselves as others see us.’ ‘I haven’t been photographed for quite ten years,’ says Crosby, ‘and I feel now as if it were my duty to sit again. Miss Barry, if you are going to be photographed to-day, will you take me under your wing?’ ‘I shall be pleased indeed,’ says Miss Barry, with much dignity. ‘Won’t it be fun!’ cries Betty, clapping her hands. ‘And the hour?’ asks Crosby. ‘About two. What do you think, Susan? Two would be a good hour, eh?’ ‘Yes, a good hour,’ says Susan, without interest. Then, suddenly: ‘Is—are you going to have Bonnie taken?’ ‘My dear Susan’—Miss Barry flushes the dull pink of the old when shamed—‘why should we send all our pictures to your uncle at once? It—it would probably confuse him. Another time we may think of that,’ says Miss Barry, who has counted up all her available shillings this morning, to see if it would be possible to send all the children, but had found they fell decidedly short. She would have died, however, rather than confess this to a stranger. ‘Just mine and yours, and—but I am afraid your father will never consent to be taken—and Betty’s and Carew’s—just the eldest ones. You can see, Mr. Crosby, that just the eldest ones will be those most acceptable to their uncle.’