The star. (Reynoldsville, Pa.) 1892-1946, 1897-03-10
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truyed 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.
eco and plny 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 gem
tleness:
GAS the little child of whom you
speak is dead, it is, conclude, pos
thumous portrait you wish to nave
taken--the picture of the little Great
ure whose soul has fed, lying iu 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 MS
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, monsieur" she said;
'but / need not give you so much
trouble My child has been dead six
years."
The photographer looked stupefed.
"You have then, already, n portrait
of your sonl' he said, after pause
"a painting, perhaps, that you wish
photographed"
"a painting of him-I?" exclaimed
Dame Ivonne. Mon dieu, mol or
why should / have come all the way
from Brittany? | 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 land
do you imagine that without tho ori-
ginal, without another portrait, with
out any sort of indication or guide, 1
can produce likeness of child who
died six years ago?"
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
1t 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, q
shadow of my son? Cannot it give
ever so imperfect u resemblance of
her child to u desolate mother,
who--H
Sobs broke the sentence. Dame
Yvonne could say no more.
Now here was n great grief to con-
sole and the honor Of great inven-
ton to defend. The kind-hearted
photographer did not wish tho simple
peasant to return to her Breton vii
lage disappointed, so he reflected
while.
"Madamc," he said thoughtfully,
"nothing is absolutely impossible"
"Ah," she cried quickly, "then You
can give Zoe portrait of my darling?"
"Perhaps," said he.
"Though he has been dead six
years?" she asked.
"Who knows?" he said. 81 will try
at any rate"
"God bless you, monsienr-you and
your family-if you accomplish this
good action, exclaimed Dame Yvonnc,
TREMENDOUSLY. "What can do to help
you? Is there anything necessary for
--b
''You have preserved the clothes of
the child you have iost?" he asked.
Preserved them?" she echoed; 81
wonld no more part with them than u
church would relinqulsh its sacred
relics. have the worry little gar
ments, still rs good as new, in which /
dressed him the last time he ran chas-
ing the butterflies in the green fields"
''Send them to me directly" said
| the artist.
"You shall have them in an hour,
MONSIEUR" she replied.
"Good," said he. "Only three
more questions What was the color