" I protested, "these photographs are faded, and they
are not the Mrs. Higgins of to-day. Nobody wears that style of dress
now, and she has actually a fringe! Throw them away, and do as I
propose."

"I see nowt wrong wi' 't," he replied, examining it critically. "She's
fatter now, an' isn't as good lookin' ... more wrinkles, like....
Makes a nicer pictur, this does ... plenty good enough for 'er."

"Mr. Higgins!" I exclaimed indignantly.

"If--you--please--miss," he said emphatically, "it's me as gives the
order ... one dozen, miss ... to match this 'ere."

There was nothing more to be said, and I took two negatives of the
wretched little man, in the first of which he is shown standing as
erect as nature permits, with the silk hat fixed firmly upon his head,
and one hand in his trousers' pocket, so that the white waistcoat might
not be concealed; and in the second, sitting with one leg thrown over
the other, and the silk hat upon his knee. It was in vain that I
pointed out that neither pose would correspond with that of his wife,
which was a mere vignetted head and shoulders; Barjona had made up his
mind, and was not to be moved, and I felt thankful, with Mother
Hubbard, that I was not Mrs. Higgins.

I went out to speak to her when the operation had been completed, and
at our approach the neighbours who had been keeping her company smiled
and drew back a little.

"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Higgins," I said. "I have already congratulated
your husband; let me now wish you much happiness."

"Well, now, to be sure, Miss Holden," she replied, and accompanying the
words with a most decided wink, "that remains to be seen. But if he
doesn't give me much, he'll 'ave less, I can tell you. I think we
shall get on when we've settled down a bit; an' anyway, time won't hang
as 'eavy on my 'ands, so to speak."

"Come, lass, we must be going," interrupted Barjona, who had climbed up
beside her.

"As soon as ever I've finished," replied Mrs. Higgins, smiling upon him
sweetly. Nevertheless, she tightened the reins and prepared to move.

"I'll drive, lass," said Barjona, holding out his hand.

"I'll keep 'em mysen, lad," replied his wife; "I've 'eld 'em all this
time while t' mare was still: I'll 'old 'em now when she's on t' move.
Come up, lass!"

She threw me another portentous wink, and the mare moved slowly down
the lane.

"Poor Barjona!" murmured Mother Hubbard, as we sauntered back to the
cottage.

"I wonder if