The free press. (Poplarville, Miss.) 1890-19??, 1897-04-01

deal of patience. 1t is child, pre-
sumo, madame, whose portrait you
wish taken?"
Yes, monsieur, it is child; but
he will not trouble you with restless
ness, " replied Dame Yvonne, shaking
her head che will be neither petu-
liant nor rebellious, the poor little
love. Good reason why-he is"
tYes?" said the artist, interroga-
tively, stroking tho forehead of his
youngest child rs she paused.
'He is dead |" said Dame Yvonne,
| gravely.
AT these startling words, uttered in
a voice in which approaching sobs be-
| trayed themselves, the photographer
| felt distressed and ashamed of his own
| egotism. He felt he must have bit
terly renewed the mothers grief in
exhibiting to her these fair children
and caressing them before her eyes.
go and play on the balcony" he
whispered hastily; and, as they passed
through the door, he kissed them ten
derly, but softly, lest his visitor
should hear. Then, returning to his
seat near her, he said, with great gen.
tleness:
Gas the little child of whom you
speak is dead, it is, l conclude, pos
thumous portrait you wish to have
taken--the picture of the little Great
ure whose soul has fled, lying in his
white bed, crown of white roses on
his colorless forehead 1t will be
painful task to me; but to oblige you,
madame, / shall be happy, if you will
give me your address, to proceed as
soon as possible to your residence.
Dame Yvonne drew from her pocket
large red and blue handkerchief,
with which, quite simply, she wiped
her fearful eyes.
'Thank you, monsi eur, she said
''but need not give you so much
trouble. My child has been dead six
years"
The photographer looked stupefied.
''You have then, already, portrait
of your son !' he said, after pause
"a painting, perhaps, that you wish
photographed"
ga painting of him-I?" exclaimed
Dame Yvonne. Mon dieu, no! or
why should have come all the way
from Brittany? l have no sort of
relic or remembrance of my sweet
angels face; it is the hope of obtain
ing one that has induced me to take
this long journey"
The photographer started to his feet
in utter amazement.
"What madame !" he exclaimed "and
do you imagine that without the ori-
ginal, without another portrait, with
out any sort of indication or guide, I
can produce likeness of child who
died six years ago?"
"What, monsieur!" cried Dame
Yvonne, in her turn, edo you mean
to say that it is impossible? People
vaunt on every side the prodigies, the
miracles OF photography; boast that
it surprises the sea in the mysterious
movements of its waves, and the sky
in the rapid flight of its clouds, and
renders accurately the most intricate
tracery of the highest buildings and
monuments; and cannot it-cannot
the art that accumplishes these marvels
reproduce vestige, souvenir,
shadow OF my son? Cannot it give
ever so imperfect a resemblance of
her child to desolate mother,
who
Sobs broke the sentence. Dame
Yvonne could say no more.
Now here was great grief to con-
sole and the honor OF great inven-
tion to defend. The kind-hearted
photographer did not wish the simple
peasant to return to her Breton viii
lage disappointed, so he reflected
while.
Madame" he said thoughtfully,
nothing is absolutely impossible.
"Ah," she cried quickly, "then you
can give me portrait of my darling?"
Perhaps" said he.
Though he has been dead six
years?" she asked.
WHO knows?" he said. ~ will try
at any rate.
God bless you, monsieur-you and