siped about. Frisco's the right field
for her. She has a fine class of trade. Oh, she's just the same as
she always was! She's careless, but she's level-headed. She's the only
person I know who never gets any older. It's fine for me to have her
there; somebody who enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye on me and
won't let me be shabby. When she thinks I need a new dress, she makes it
and sends it home with a bill that's long enough, I can tell you!'

Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on Hunker Creek took
toll from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a sudden turn of
weather, like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from one of those pretty
little feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in pointed slippers and
striped stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation quite casually--didn't
seem sensitive about it. She was satisfied with her success, but not
elated. She was like someone in whom the faculty of becoming interested
is worn out.

II

SOON AFTER I GOT home that summer, I persuaded my grandparents to have
their photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer's
shop to arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of
his developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses
on his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms
holding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a
heavy frame, one of those depressing 'crayon enlargements' often seen
in farm-house parlours, the subject being a round-eyed baby in short
dresses. The photographer came out and gave a constrained, apologetic
laugh.

'That's Tony Shimerda's baby. You remember her; she used to be the
Harlings' Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; wouldn't
hear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in
for it Saturday.'

I went away feeling that I must see Antonia again. Another girl would
have kept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its
picture on exhibition at the town photographer's, in a great gilt frame.
How like her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she hadn't thrown
herself away on such a cheap sort of fellow.

Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crew
aristocrats who are always afraid that someone may ask them to put up
a car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a menial service,
silently point to the button that calls the porter. Larry wore this
air of o