er. That's Flora Lowe's baby--the first one--an' that's
Flora. I think it flatters her. That's my Flora. It ain't very good.
She looks terrible sober. There's my poor husband. I s'pose you
remember him, Esther? Of course you know how he used to look. Do you
think it's a good likeness?"

"I don't know. I guess it's pretty good, ain't it?" stammered Mrs.
Field.

"Well, some think it is, and some don't. I ain't never liked it very
well myself, but it was all I had. It was taken some years before he
died. I guess jest about the time you was down here. There! I s'pose
you know whose this is?"

It was her own photograph that Mrs. Field leant over and saw, and
Lois on the other side saw it also.

"Yes, I guess I do," she said.

"Was it a pretty good one of your sister?"

There was a strange gulping sound in Mrs. Field's throat. She did not
answer. Mrs. Maxwell thought she did not hear, and repeated her
question.

"No, I don't think 'twas, very," said Mrs. Field hoarsely.

"Well, of course I don't know. I never see her. You remember you gave
this to me when you was here. I always thought you must look alike,
judging from your pictures. I never see pictures so much alike in my
life. I don't know how many folks have thought they were taken for
the same person, an' I've always thought so too. If anything your
sister's picture looks more like you than your own does; but I've
always told which was which by that breast-pin in your sister's. Why,
you've got on that breast-pin now, ain't you, Esther?"

"Yes, I have," said Mrs. Field.

"I s'pose your sister left it to you. Well, Lois wouldn't want to
wear it as I know of. It's rather old for her. Why, Lois, what's the
matter?"

Lois had gotten up abruptly. "I guess I'll go over to the window,"
said she, in a quick trembling voice.

Mrs. Maxwell looked at her sharply. "Why, you're dreadful pale. You
ain't faint, are you?"

"No, ma'am."

Mrs. Field turned over another page of the album. Her pale face had a
hard, indifferent look. Mrs. Maxwell nudged her, and nodded toward
Lois in the window.

"She looks dreadful," she whispered.

"I don't see as she looks any worse than she's been doin' right
along," said Mrs. Field, without lowering her voice. "What baby is
this?"

"It's Mis' Robinson's; it's dead. Hadn't I better get her something
to take? I've got some currant wine. Maybe a little of that would do
her good."

"No, thank you; I don't care for any," Lois interp