pened a case that travels always with me. From the narrow gold rim of
frame inside, my lover smiled gayly up at her brown hair and my gray,
bending over it together.

None of the triumphs of modern photographers seem to my eyes so
delicately charming as the daguerrotypes of the sixties. As we tipped
the old picture this way and that, to catch the right light on the image
under the glass, the very uncertainty of effect seemed to give it an
elusive fascination. To my mind the birds in the bush have always
brighter plumage than any in the hand, and one of these early
photographs leaves ever, no matter from what angle you look upon it,
much to the imagination. So Geoff in his gray Southern uniform, young
and soldierly, laughed up at Sally and me from the shadowy lines beneath
the glass, more like a vision of youth than like actual flesh and blood
that had once been close and real. His brown hair, parted far to one
side, swept across his forehead in a smooth wave, as was the
old-fashioned way; his collar was of a big, queer sort unknown to-day;
the cut of his soldier's coat was antique; but the beauty of the boyish
face, the straight glance of his eyes, and ease of the broad shoulders
that military drill could not stiffen, these were untouched, were
idealized even by the old-time atmosphere that floated up from the
picture like fragrance of rose-leaves. As I gazed down at the boy, it
came to me with a pang that he was very young and I growing very old,
and I wondered would he care for me still. Then I remembered that where
he lived it was the unworn soul and not the worn-out body that counted,
and I knew that the spirit within me would meet his when the day came,
with as fresh a joy as forty years ago. And as I still looked, happy in
the thought, I felt all at once as if I had seen his face, heard his
voice, felt the touch of his young hand that day--could almost feel it
yet. Perhaps my eyes were a little dim, perhaps the uncertainty of the
old daguerrotype helped the illusion, but the smile of the master of the
Revenge seemed to shine up at me from my Geoff's likeness, and then
Sally's slow voice broke the pause.

"It's Cousin Geoffrey, isn't it?" she asked. Her father was Geoffrey
Meade's cousin--a little boy when Geoff died, "Was he as beautiful as
that?" she said, gently, putting her hand over mine that held the velvet
case. And then, after another pause, she went on, hesitatingly; "Cousin
Mary, I wonder if you would mi