whose brasses were tarnished by years of
service; two stiff ladder-back chairs, a three-cornered washstand, and a
few faded photographs in pale gilt frames completed the furnishings.

With swift step Lucy crossed the room and gazed up at one of the
pictures.

"That's Dad!"

Ellen nodded.

"I'd no idea he was ever such a chubby little fellow. Look at his baby
hands and his drum!"

She paused, looking intently at the picture. Then in a far-away tone she
added:

"And his eyes were just the same."

For several minutes she lingered, earnest and reminiscent.

"And is this you, Aunt Ellen?" she asked, motioning toward another
time-dimmed likeness hanging over the bed.

"Yes."

A silence fell upon the room. Ellen fidgeted.

"I've changed a good deal since then," she observed, after waiting
nervously for some comment.

"You've changed much more than Dad."

"How?"

Curiosity impelled her to cross to Lucy's side and examine the
photograph.

"Your eyes--your mouth."

"What about 'em?"

"I--I--don't believe I could explain it," responded Lucy slowly.

"Mebbe you'd have liked me better as a little girl," grinned her aunt
whimsically.

"I--yes. I'm sure I should have liked you as a little girl."

The reply piqued Ellen. She bent forward and scrutinized the likeness more
critically. The picture was of a child in a low-cut print dress and
pantalettes,--a resolute figure, all self-assurance and self-will.

It was easy to trace in the face the features of the woman who confronted
it: the brows of each were high, broad, and still bordered by smoothly
parted hair; the well-formed noses, too, were identical; but the eyes of
the little maiden in the old-fashioned gown sparkled with an unmalicious
merriment and frankness the woman's had lost, and the curving mouth of the
child was unmarred by bitter lines. Ellen stirred uncomfortably.

As she looked she suddenly became conscious of a desire to turn her glance
away from the calm gaze of her youthful self. Yes, the years had indeed
left their mark upon her, she inwardly confessed. She did not look like
that now. Lucy was right. Her eyes had changed, and her mouth, too.

"Folks grow old," she murmured peevishly. "Nobody can expect to keep on
looking as they did when they were ten years old."

Abruptly she moved toward the door.

"There's water in the pitcher, an' there's soap and towels here, I guess,"
she remarked. "When you get fixed up, come downstairs; suppe