Charlotte appeared. As she set about her work Bob came racing over the lawn and in at the open door.
"Uncle Red, somebody wants you right away quick!" he announced.
"Just my luck! I wanted to help pose the picture," grumbled Burns, but went off, the boy on his shoulder shouting with delight.
The photographer, in the plain dress of dull blue, which, artist-wise, she had chosen as her professional garb, and in which she herself made a picture to be observed with enjoyment, moved deftly about the room arranging her lights and shadows. This done, she turned to her sitter. When she came in he had been standing before a set of prints upon the wall, studying them critically, but from the moment of her entrance he had been watching her, though he held a photograph in his hand with which he might have seemed to be engaged.
"Ready?" she asked, smiling. "Or, rather, as ready as you ever will be?"
"Does my reluctance show as plainly as that? But I am quite ready now to do your bidding."
"Sit down in that chair, please. But first—I really can't wait longer to ask you—how is Jamie Ferguson?"
"Doing finely." His face lighted with pleasure at the thought.
"Will he have the full use of his poor little legs?"
"It is too soon to say positively. We hope quite confidently for that result. He shows better powers of recuperation than we dared expect."