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Page 17
Her mother permitted herself to be led to the opposite side of the
room, where a large lounge stood, and seating herself upon it, took her
little daughter within the circle of her arm; whereupon Marjorie
commenced complaining of the injustice of these "homely" people being
given the advantage over her pretty self.
"Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie!" whispered her mother, "what a very foolish
little girl you are! I think it would take a miracle to make you see
aright. Don't you know that that dear baby is very, very sick, and
that probably its sad little mother has brought it here to have its
picture taken, so that if it should be called away from her, she might
have something to gaze at that looked like her precious little one?
And that poor crippled boy! He has a lovely face, with its large,
patient eyes and sensitive mouth. How much better he is to look at
than that young woman you admire so much, whose beauty does not come
from her soul at all, and will disappear as soon as her rosy cheeks
fade and her hair grows gray! Now, that sweet old lady over there is
just a picture of goodness; and her dear old eyes have a look of love
in them that is more beautiful than any shimmer or shine you could show
me in those of your friend Miss Peacock."
"Why do you call her 'Miss Peacock'? You don't know her, do you?"
queried Marjorie.
"No, I don't know her in one sense, but in another I do. She is vain
and proud, and the reason I called her Miss Peacock was because of the
way in which she struts back and forth before that pier-glass,--just
like the silly bird itself. But I should not have called her names.
It was not a kind thing to do, even though she _is_ so foolish; and I
beg her pardon and yours, little daughter."
Marjorie did not ask why her mother apologized to her. She had a dim
sort of an idea that it was because she had set her an example that she
would be sorry to have her follow. Instead, she inquired suddenly,--
"How do they take pictures, Mamma? I mean, what does the man do, when
he goes behind that queer machine thing and sticks his head under the
cloth, and then after a while claps in something that looks like my
tracing-slate and then pops it out again? What makes the picture?"
"The sun makes the picture. It is so strong and clear that though it
is such a long distance away it shines down upon the object that is to
be photographed and reflects its image through a lens in the camera
upon a plate which is _sensitized_ (that is, coated with a sort of
gelatine that is so sensitive that it holds the impression cast upon it
until by the aid of certain acids and processes it can be made
permanent, that is, lasting). I am afraid I have not succeeded in
explaining so you understand very clearly; have I, Sweetheart?"
Marjorie nodded her head. "Ye-es," she replied listlessly. "I guess I
know now. You said--the sun--did--it; the sun took our pictures. It's
very strange--to think--the sun--does--it."
"Come, Marjorie! Want to go travelling?" asked a voice.
"No, thank you; not just now," replied Marjorie, slowly. "I am going
to have my photograph taken in a little while,--just as soon as all
these stupid folks get theirs done. I should n't have time to go
anywhere hardly; and besides it 'd tire me, and I want to look all
fresh and neat, so the picture will be pretty."
"But suppose we promised, honor bright--"
"Begging your pardon," broke in another voice, "that's understood in
any case,--a foregone conclusion, you know. Our honor would _have_ to
be bright."
"Suppose we promised faithfully," continued the first voice, pretending
not to notice the interruption, "to bring you back in time to go in
when your turn comes, would n't you rather take a journey with us and
see any number of wonderful things than just to sit here leaning
against your mother's arm and watching these people that you think so
'stupid'?"
"Of course," assented Marjorie, at once. "It 's awful tiresome,--this;
it makes me feel just as sleepy as can be. But what 's the use of
talking? I can't leave here or I 'd lose my chance, and besides Mamma
never lets me go out with strangers."
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