“Her ladyship has just given it to me,” whispered Constance.

“Indeed!” said Lily, with an extraordinary accent.

‘Her ladyship’ was the last and best of Constance’s servants, a really excellent creature of thirty, who had known misfortune, and who must assuredly have been sent to Constance by the old watchful Providence.  They ‘got on together’ nearly perfectly.  Her name was Mary.  After ten years of turmoil, Constance in the matter of servants was now at rest.

“Yes,” said Constance.  “She’s named it to me several times—­about having her photograph taken, and last week I let her go.  I told you, didn’t I?  I always consider her in every way, all her little fancies and everything.  And the copies came to-day.  I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything.  You may be sure she’ll take a look into the album next time she cleans the room.”

Constance and Lily exchanged a glance agreeing that Constance had affably stretched a point in deciding to put the photograph of a servant between the same covers with photographs of her family and friends.  It was doubtful whether such a thing had ever been done before.

One photograph usually leads to another, and one photograph album to another photograph album.

“Pass me that album on the second shelf of the Canterbury; my dear,” said Constance.

Lily rose vivaciously, as though to see the album on the second shelf of the Canterbury had been the ambition of her life.

They sat side by side at the table, Lily turning over the pages.  Constance, for all her vast bulk, continually made little nervous movements.  Occasionally she would sniff and occasionally a mysterious noise would occur in her chest; she always pretended that this noise was a cough, and would support the pretence by emitting a real cough immediately after it.

“Why!” exclaimed Lily.  “Have I seen that before?” “I don’t know, my dear,” said Constance.  “Have you?”

It was a photograph of Sophia taken a few years previously by ’a very nice gentleman,’ whose acquaintance the sisters had made during a holiday at Harrogate.  It portrayed Sophia on a knoll, fronting the weather.

“It’s Mrs. Scales to the life—­I can see that,” said Lily.

“Yes,” said Constance.  “Whenever there was a wind she always stood like that, and took long deep breaths of it.”

This recollection of one of Sophia’s habits recalled the whole woman to Constance’s memory, and drew a picture of her character for the girl who had scarcely known her.

“It’s not like ordinary photographs.  There’s something special about it,” said Lily, enthusiastically.  “I don’t think I ever saw a photograph like that.”

“I’ve got another copy of it in my bedroom,” said Constance.  “I’ll give you this one.”

“Oh, Mrs. Povey!  I couldn’t think—!”

“Yes, yes!” said Constance, removing the photograph from the page.