Marjorie did not ask why her mother apologized to her. She had a dim
sort of an idea that it was because she had set her an example that she
would be sorry to have her follow. Instead, she inquired suddenly,--

"How do they take pictures, Mamma? I mean, what does the man do, when
he goes behind that queer machine thing and sticks his head under the
cloth, and then after a while claps in something that looks like my
tracing-slate and then pops it out again? What makes the picture?"

"The sun makes the picture. It is so strong and clear that though it
is such a long distance away it shines down upon the object that is to
be photographed and reflects its image through a lens in the camera
upon a plate which is _sensitized_ (that is, coated with a sort of
gelatine that is so sensitive that it holds the impression cast upon it
until by the aid of certain acids and processes it can be made
permanent, that is, lasting). I am afraid I have not succeeded in
explaining so you understand very clearly; have I, Sweetheart?"

Marjorie nodded her head. "Ye-es," she replied listlessly. "I guess I
know now. You said--the sun--did--it; the sun took our pictures. It's
very strange--to think--the sun--does--it."


"Come, Marjorie! Want to go travelling?" asked a voice.

"No, thank you; not just now," replied Marjorie, slowly. "I am going
to have my photograph taken in a little while,--just as soon as all
these stupid folks get theirs done. I should n't have time to go
anywhere hardly; and besides it 'd tire me, and I want to look all
fresh and neat, so the picture will be pretty."