“Well, now,” said Hoyt, trying to be soothing, as he believed it was always best to be with women,—to tell the truth he was an ignoramus where women were concerned,—“I think it would be better if you didn't look at them. There are reasons why—” he ambled on like this, stupid man that he was, till the lady naturally insisted upon seeing the pictures without a moment's delay.
So poor Hoyt brought them out and placed them in her hand, and then ran for the water pitcher, and had to be at the bother of bathing her forehead to keep her from fainting.
For what the lady saw was this: Over face and flowers and the head of the coffin fell a thick veil, the edges of which touched the floor in some places. It covered the features so well that not a hint of them was visible.
“There was nothing over mother's face!” cried the lady at length.
“Not a thing,” acquiesced Hoyt. “I know, because I had occasion to touch her face just before I took the picture. I put some of her hair back from her brow.”
“What does it mean, then?” asked the lady.
“You know better than I. There is no explanation in science. Perhaps there is some in—in psychology.”
“Well,” said the young woman, stammering a little and coloring, “mother was a good woman, but she always wanted her own way, and she always had it, too.”
“Yes.”
“And she never would have her picture taken. She didn't admire her own appearance. She said no one should ever see a picture of her.”