little boy forgot his shyness and grinned de-
lightedly when familiar faces came into view.
In the group about Antonia I was conscious
of a kind of physical harmony. They leaned
this way and that, and were not afraid to
touch each other. They contemplated the pho-
tographs with pleased recognition; looked at
some admiringly, as if these characters in their
mother's girlhood had been remarkable people.
The little children, who could not speak Eng-
lish, murmured comments to each other in their
rich old language.

Antonia held out a photograph of Lena that
had come from San Francisco last Christmas.
"Does she still look like that? She hasn't
been home for six years now." Yes, it was
exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman,
a trifle too plump, in a hat a trifle too large,
but with the old lazy eyes, and the old dim-
pled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners
of her mouth.

There was a picture of Frances Harling in
a be-frogged riding costume that I remem-
bered well. "Isn't she fine!" the girls mur-
mured. They all assented. One could see that
Frances had come down as a heroine in the
family legend. Only Leo was unmoved.

[[394]]

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v?