in'," relented the mother. "Bill, he's as
good a feller to work as ever was if he don't git with a lot of orn'ry
boys. Hit hurts Fawt to work stiddy, so it does.--Bill, come here and
tote these clo'es home fer me."

Bill came, ruddy and laughing from a scuffle, and walked off with the
basket.

"And git the wash-water and make a fire under the kittle," called his
mother.

"I'll be apt to," responded Bill.

"Come along into the daguerreyan car, Mis' Stillman," invited the
landlady. "You never see the inside o' one, did you?"

"Laws! is that wher' you're garn to? I can't stop but a minute. Hit
looks mighty fine. The boys said this feller was drivin' into town last
night when meetin' broke. Who's garn to have their picter took?--You,
Jane?"

"Me?" replied the neighbor. "Laws! no: I ain't rich."

"Oh, you'll change your minds," drawled the landlady patronizingly, as
became a lady of means: "he takes 'em reel cheap."

The photographer met this group at his door and assisted them into the
car, from which all his earlier visitors had dispersed except Mallston.

Mallston stood at the steps and watched the landlady's grandchild
prepared for a sitting. The rabble had begun their morning business of
pitching horseshoes, but his interest was held by that little child--its
fresh clothes, rings of black hair and pomegranate coloring. The artist,
having placed his camera, was in the farther room preparing his plate.
When he came out and was in the act of closing the door he noticed
Mallston, and asked, "Do you want a job?"

The barbarian did decidedly.

"Come into the back room, then, and help me."

Mallston went striding through the car, and placed himself in an
obedient attitude behind the partition.

"Laws!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillman, standing between the camera, where the
artist was burying his head under a black cloth, and the object to be
photographed, "when we lived in Bartholomew county--'twas the year after
we moved f'm Johnson county--Foster and John they was little fellers
then, and I did want the'r picters that bad, so I did. But the'r pap he
'lowed it was a waste o' money. Pore man! he was a mighty hard worker:
he'd go a mile'd to make a cent, and then he'd lose it all with bad
management, so he would. But I had easy times them days, with everything
to my han': I spun and wove all the jeans the men-folks wore, and we
milked a dozen cows--"

"Will you please move aside?"

"Git out o' the way, Mis' Stillman