"They say I am like her," she whispered to herself.
Then she turned to the other picture in her lap. It was a cheap
photograph with an ornate border. Posed stiffly in a photographer's
chair, against a background which represented a frightful storm at
sea, sat Sandy Kilday. His feet were sadly out of focus, and his head
was held at an impossible angle by the iron rest which stood like a
half-concealed skeleton behind him. He wore cheap store-clothes, and a
turn-down collar which rested upon a ready-made tie of enormous
proportions. It was a picture he had had taken in his first new
clothes soon after coming to Clayton. Ruth had found it in an old book
of Annette's.
How crude and ludicrous the awkward boy looked beside the elegant
figures on the walls about her! She leaned nearer the fire to get the
light on the face, then she smiled with a sudden rush of tenderness.
The photographer had done his worst for the figure, but even an
unskilled hand and a poor camera had not wholly obliterated the
fineness of the face. Spirit, honor, and strength were all there. The
eyes that met hers were as fine and fearless as her own, and the
honest smile that hovered on his lips seemed to be in frank amusement
at his own sorry self.
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