out this mansion. We, the passengers, had thrilled as one soul,
imagining the wonderful life which must go on behind those massive
portals, the treasures outshining the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,
which required those thick, bronze bars for their protection. And
here was the mistress of all the splendour, inviting me to come and
see it from within!

She wanted to send me home in the car, but I would not have that, on
account of the push-cart men and the babies in my street; I got out
and walked--my heart beating fast, my blood leaping with exultation.
I reached home, and there on the bureau was the picture--but behold,
how changed! It was become a miracle of the art of
colour-photography; its hair was golden, its eyes a wonderful
red-brown, its cheeks aglow with the radiance of youth! And yet more
amazing, the picture spoke! It spoke with the most delicious of
Southern drawls--referring to the "repo't" of my child-labour
committee, shivering at the cold and bidding me pull the "fu-uzz" up
round me. And when I told funny stories about the Italians and the
Hebrews of my tenement-neighbourhood, it broke into silvery
laughter, and cried: "Oh, de-ah me! How que-ah!" Little had I
dreamed, when I left that picture in the morning, what a miracle was
to be wrought upon it.

I knew, of course, what was the matter with me; the symptoms were
unmistakable. After having made up my mind that I was an old woman,
and that there was nothing more in life for me save labour--here the
little archer had come, and with the sharpest of his golden arrows,
had shot me through. I had all the thrills, the raptures and
delicious agonies of first love; I lived no longer in myself, but in
the thought of another person. Twenty times a day I looked at my