e. Why, as I remember, you hadn't any, sir,--at
least, none to speak of; neither had the poor little cousin. But my
little girl--Miss Dorothy, that is--had the most I ever saw on so young
a child; it was golden-yellow, and so curly that it would cling to your
fingers when you touched it. I always hated to put a cap on her, but
Mrs. Reed had them both in caps from the first. So different from the
other lady! She said caps worn all the time were too heating for little
heads, and so her baby never had any; but it wore a loose hood when it
was taken out in the air. I must hurry on with the story. You know the
other baby was never at Aix. We met it and its parents at Havre, when my
lady went there to take the steamer to America. You twins were not two
months old. And a sad day that was indeed! For the good gentleman, your
father--Heaven rest his soul!--died of a fever before you and Miss
Dorothy had been in the world a fortnight. Oh, how my lady and the other
lady cried about it when they came together! I used to feel so sorry
when I saw them grieving, that, to forget it, I'd take you two babies
out, one on each arm, and walk the street up and down in front of the
hotel. I had become acquainted with a young Frenchman, a travelling
photographer; and he, happening to be at Havre, saw me one morning as I
was walking with the babies, and he invited me to go to his place, hard
by, and have my picture taken, for nothing. It was a wilful thing to do
with those two infants, after I had been allowed to walk only a short
distance by the hotel; but it was a temptation, and I went. I wouldn't
put down the babies though, so he had to take my picture sitting on a
rock, with one twin on each arm. If you'll believe it, the babies came
out beautifully in the picture, and I was almost as black as a coal. It
was like a judgment on me, for I knew my lady would think it shocking in
me to carry the two helpless twins to a photographer's."

"But the picture," said Donald, anxiously, "where is it? Have you it
yet?"

"I'll tell you about that soon," Madame Rene answered quickly, as if
unwilling to break the thread of her story. "The dear lady was so kind
that I often had a mind to own up and show her the picture, but the
thought of that ugly black thing sitting up so stiff and holding the
little innocents, kept me back. It's well it did, too,--though it's rare
any good thing comes out of a wrong,--for if I had, the picture would
have gone down with