“Why do you call her ‘Miss Peacock’?  You don’t know her, do you?” queried Marjorie.

“No, I don’t know her in one sense, but in another I do.  She is vain and proud, and the reason I called her Miss Peacock was because of the way in which she struts back and forth before that pier-glass,—­just like the silly bird itself.  But I should not have called her names.  It was not a kind thing to do, even though she is so foolish; and I beg her pardon and yours, little daughter.”

Marjorie did not ask why her mother apologized to her.  She had a dim sort of an idea that it was because she had set her an example that she would be sorry to have her follow.  Instead, she inquired suddenly,—­

“How do they take pictures, Mamma?  I mean, what does the man do, when he goes behind that queer machine thing and sticks his head under the cloth, and then after a while claps in something that looks like my tracing-slate and then pops it out again?  What makes the picture?”

“The sun makes the picture.  It is so strong and clear that though it is such a long distance away it shines down upon the object that is to be photographed and reflects its image through a lens in the camera upon a plate which is sensitized (that is, coated with a sort of gelatine that is so sensitive that it holds the impression cast upon it until by the aid of certain acids and processes it can be made permanent, that is, lasting).  I am afraid I have not succeeded in explaining so you understand very clearly; have I, Sweetheart?”

Marjorie nodded her head.  “Ye-es,” she replied listlessly.  “I guess I know now.  You said—­the sun—­did—­it; the sun took our pictures.  It’s very strange—­to think—­the sun—­does—­it.”

“Come, Marjorie!  Want to go travelling?” asked a voice.

“No, thank you; not just now,” replied Marjorie, slowly.  “I am going to have my photograph taken in a little while,—­just as soon as all these stupid folks get theirs done.  I should n’t have time to go anywhere hardly; and besides it ’d tire me, and I want to look all fresh and neat, so the picture will be pretty.”

“But suppose we promised, honor bright—­”

“Begging your pardon,” broke in another voice, “that’s understood in any case,—­a foregone conclusion, you know.  Our honor would have to be bright.”

“Suppose we promised faithfully,” continued the first voice, pretending not to notice the interruption, “to bring you back in time to go in when your turn comes, would n’t you rather take a journey with us and see any number of wonderful things than just to sit here leaning against your mother’s arm and watching these people that you think so ’stupid’?”

“Of course,” assented Marjorie, at once.  “It ’s awful tiresome,—­this; it makes me feel just as sleepy as can be.  But what ’s the use of talking?  I can’t leave here or I ’d lose my chance, and besides Mamma never lets me go out with strangers.”