That slow crooked smile of his, something that broke up his whole
face into geniality and friendliness, how she adored him when he
looked like that! He was wearing clothes of some rough red-brown
stuff and a black knitted tie--
She was carrying something, a little parcel in tissue paper. She
pressed it into his hand when they met. He opened it, just like a
boy, chuckling, his eyes shining, his fingers tearing the paper in
his eagerness. Her present was a round locket of thin plain gold and
inside was the funniest little black faded photograph of Maggie, her
head only, a wild untidy head of hair, a fat round schoolgirl face--
a village snapshot of Maggie taken in St. Dreot's when she was about
fifteen.
"It's all I had," she said. "I remembered it the other day and I
found it. A travelling photographer took it one day. He came to the
village and every one was taken, father and all. It's very bad but
it was the only one."
"It's wonderful," said Martin, and truly it was wonderful. It had
caught by a marvellous chance, in spite of its shabby faded
darkness, the very soul of Maggie. Was it her hair, her untidy hair,
or the honesty of her eyes, or the strength and trustiness of her
mouth? But then it was to any one who did not know her the bad dim
photograph of an untidy child, to any one who did know her the very
stamp and witness of Maggie and all that she was.
Pages:
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440