A large photograph stood against
the book rack. Three little naked Indian children with feathers in
their hair were dancing in the foreground. Behind them lay an ancient
cliff dwelling half in ruins. To the left an Indian warrior, arms
folded on his broad chest stood watching the children, his face full of
an inscrutable sadness. The children were extraordinarily beautiful.
Diana had worked with a very rapid lens and had caught them atilt, in
the full abandonment of the child to joy in motion. The shadowed,
mysterious, pathetic outline of the cliff dwelling, the somber figure
of the chief only enhanced the vivid sense of motion and glee in the
children. The picture was intrinsically lovely even without that
haunting sense of the desert's significance that made Diana's work
doubly intriguing.
Enoch's depression dropped from him as if it had never been. "Oh, my
dearest!" he murmured, "you did not forget, did you! It is your very
self you have sent me, your own whimsical joyousness!"
Jonas tapped softly on the door.
"Come in, Jonas! Isn't it fine! How do you suppose a photograph can
tell so much!"
"It's Miss Diana, it ain't the camera!" exclaimed Jonas, with a
chuckle. "Na-che says she ain't never seen her when she couldn't
smile.
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