Topsy had been photographed a number of times: once cosily curled up on a mat; once occupying an easy-chair with something of the dignity of a judge; another time as a conspicuous member of a group; and lastly by the side of a lady who had her hand on its head.
'And who is the lady?' inquired Mr Broughton, trying to speak with a calmness he did not quite feel. 'It does not look like your mother.'
'O no! Why, it is auntie!' exclaimed little Ally in a tone which implied wonder that he could for a moment have taken it for Mrs Gray.
'Then Topsy was fond of auntie, and auntie was fond of Topsy, I suppose?' said Mr Broughton wishing to discover all he could about this auntie.
The little girl nodded her head by way of reply, and then she said: 'Auntie did cry so much when Topsy died. She was auntie's own doggy.'
'And did you cry?' asked Mr Broughton.
Another nod of the head; but the child exclaimed: 'Not so much as auntie—auntie cried till her eyes were quite red.'
'And is this portrait very like auntie?' asked Mr Broughton.
'Yes; but she never wears such sleeves as those now. I'll shew you her new photograph;' and the little fingers rapidly turned over leaves and found a likeness taken only the other day. Mr Broughton recognised the same sweet face, though it shewed that seven or eight years had probably passed between the time the one photograph had been taken and the other.
'And what is auntie's name?' inquired Mr Broughton with forced composure.