is ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick
to the back of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like
those of the other boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in colour, and
seemed sensitive to the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than
all the others put together. He was always trying to ride the colts
before they were broken, teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how
much red the bull would stand for, or how sharp the new axe was.

After the concert was over, Antonia brought out a big boxful of
photographs: she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her
brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and
who bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian
Marys and their large families.

'You wouldn't believe how steady those girls have turned out,' Antonia
remarked. 'Mary Svoboda's the best butter-maker in all this country, and
a fine manager. Her children will have a grand chance.'

As Antonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her
chair, looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan,
after trying to see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair,
climbed up on it, and stood close together, looking. The little boy
forgot his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into
view. In the group about Antonia I was conscious of a kind of physical
harmony. They leaned this way and that, and were not afraid to touch
each other. They contemplated the photographs with pleased recognition;
looked at some admiringly, as if these characters in their mother's
girlhood had been remarkable people. The little children, who could
not speak English, murmured comments to each other in their rich old
language.

Antonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San Francisco
last Christmas. 'Does she still look like that? She hasn't been home
for six years now.' Yes, it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely
woman, a trifle too plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the
old lazy eyes, and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the
corners of her mouth.

There was a picture of Frances Harling in a befrogged riding costume
that I remembered well. 'Isn't she fine!' the girls murmured. They all
assented. One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the
family legend. Only Leo was unmoved.

'And there's Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich,
wasn't he, mother