“Yes, I know,” nodded Trix cheerfully, “on the writing table. Hurry, Aunt Lilla, or they’ll all be swearing.”
“Oh, my dearest, I trust not. Though perhaps interiorly. And even that is a sin. I remember——”
Trix propelled her gently but firmly from the room. Doubtless Mrs. Arbuthnot continued her remembrances “interiorly” as she went down the passage and descended the stairs.
Ten minutes later, Trix, provided with the stickphast, the green envelope, the scissors, and the clean blotting-paper, and having a very large album spread open before her on a table, was busily engaged with the prints. They were mainly views of Llandrindod Wells, though there were quite a good many groups among them, as well as a fair number of single figures. Trix herself appeared chiefly in these last,—Trix in a hat, Trix without a hat, Trix smiling, serious, standing, or sitting.
For half an hour or so Trix worked industriously, indefatigably. She trimmed off dark edges, she applied stickphast, she adjusted the prints in careful positions, she smoothed them down neatly with the clean blotting-paper. At the end of that time, she paused to let the paste dry somewhat before turning the page.
With a view to whiling away the interval, she possessed herself of a sister album, one of the many relations stacked against a wall, choosing it haphazard from among the number.
There is a distinct fascination in photographs which recall early memories. Trix fell promptly under the spell of this fascination. The minutes passed, finding her engrossed, absorbed. Turning a page she came upon views of Byestry, herself—a white-robed, short-skirted small person—appearing in the foreground of many.
Trix smiled at the representations. It really was rather an adorable small person. It was so slim-legged, mop-haired, and elfin-smiled. It was seen, for the most part, lavishing blandishments on a somewhat ungainly puppy. One photograph, however, represented the small person in company with a boy.
Trix looked at this photograph, and suddenly amazement fell full upon her. She looked, she leant back in her chair and shut her eyes, and then she looked again. Yes; there was no mistake, no shadow of a mistake. The boy in the photograph was the man with the wheelbarrow, or the other way about, which possibly might be the more correct method of expressing the matter. But, whichever the method, the fact remained the same.
Trix stared harder at the photograph, cogitating, bewildered. Below it was written in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s rather sprawling handwriting, “T. D., aged five. A. G., aged fourteen. Byestry, 1892.”