hed sticking in the last photographs, and, picking it up, she began
turning the pages.

There was Archelaus ... she caught her breath. Her lovely Archelaus as
he had appeared before going off to that terrible Crimea, which Annie
always thought was so called because it was such a wicked place. The
print was not very clear, as it was only a copy made from the original
daguerreotype, but what it lacked in definition Annie's memory could
supply. Archelaus was standing with one elbow leaning upon a rustic
pillar; he wore his uniform and looked like a king. He had splendid
side-whiskers, though their yellow hue did not show in the photograph.
Her beautiful Archelaus ... now toiling and moiling in those terrible
deserts, those sandy places, of Australia, which was the underside of
the world, where black heathen went about mother-naked. By now he had
doubtless dug much gold--many, many sovereigns of it--out of the sand,
and perhaps some day very soon he would walk in with his pockets full of
it; and then who would cut a dash in the country-side, from Land's End
up to Truro and beyond it? Her Archelaus. Even in her dreams Annie did
not picture Archelaus pouring out his gold upon her or as being anything
but of a splendid masculine surliness.

She turned a page and came on John-James--reluctant, bashful, glowering
at the camera ... he was the most dutiful of her children, and she
passed on carelessly and came to Tom. Sleek and shiny in black
broadcloth, with the foxy sharpness of his features somehow suggesting
the red of his colouring even in the photograph.... He was sitting in a
low plush chair with Vassie standing, after the ungallant fashion of the
pictures of the period, behind him, one hand on his shoulder. She looked
a swelling twenty, though she had only been seventeen when it was taken.
Another turn of the page and Annie saw herself--an unkind vision, at her
most set, hard of hair and jaw, with deep eye-sockets. She admired it
for the black gown and the lace handkerchief she was holding; but she
was interested in it, too, as the true egoist always is in
self-portraiture, however unflattering.

She stared at it longer than at any of the others, then, at last turning
the page, came on a photograph of Ishmael, sent by him from St. Renny at
the Parson's instigation. She stared at the mouth that, with its more
generous curves, was yet so like her own, at the square brow that never
came from her side of the family, at the n