‘If Sorrow stole A charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s self Might envy well the charm that Sorrow lent To every perfect feature.’ He draws Bonnie forward—Bonnie, who has been sitting so quietly in his corner for the past thirty minutes, enchanted with the strange scene. He has cared nothing for his aunt’s eccentricities; he has thought only of the wonderful things that were done behind that dingy black velvet curtain. Oh, if he could only get behind it too, and find out! The sickly child’s frame was weak, but his mind was fresh and strong, and ran freely into regions far beyond his ken. With the boy’s hand in his, Crosby turns courteously to Miss Barry. ‘I hope you will let me have this charming face taken, if only for my own gratification,’ says he. ‘I have long wished it. And as he is here—if you will allow me. It is quite an ideal type, you know—I may have him photographed?’ ‘Yes—yes,’ says Miss Barry, with slow acquiescence, uttered with a pause between. And then all at once, as if she has come to the end of her hesitation, ‘Yes, certainly.’ She looks at Susan as if for approval, but Susan does not return her glance. She has cast down her eyes, and is distinctly pale. Poor Susan! So delighted at the thought of having a picture of her Bonnie given her, yet so sorry for the occasion of it. She has lowered her eyes so that no one may see what she is thinking about, or what she is suffering; the quick beating of her heart is also a secret known only to herself. The throbs run like this: Oh, how good of him! Oh, no matter what he is or whom he loves, he will surely give her one of Bonnie’s pictures—a picture of her lovely, pretty Bonnie! Meantime, Bonnie is being taken by the photographer, and so still, so calm a little subject he is, that his picture is, perhaps, the best of all, after Miss Barry’s, which is unique. Just Bonnie’s head—only that. But so sweet, so perfect, and the earnest eyes— The photographer tells them that they shall have them all in a week or so. The photographer’s ‘week or so’ is so well understanded of the people, that the Barrys tell themselves in whispers in the little studio that if they get them in a fortnight they may thank their lucky stars. ‘A fortnight with that man!’ says Miss Barry, with ill-subdued wrath. ‘A month, you mean. I tell you he’s got the evil eye.’ Having thus relieved herself, and the photographer having vanished into a room beyond, she rises into happier ways. ‘Any way, in spite of him,’ says she, pointing towards the dark doorway into which he has vanished, ‘this must be called a most happy occasion—an auspicious one even, indeed.’ Miss Barry is always on immense terms with her dictionary. ‘I really think’—with sudden sprightliness—‘we should all exchange photos. I hope, Mr. Crosby’—turning pleasantly to him—‘that you will give us one of yours.’