It wuz that face that made up the loss and the strength of the picter.

I cried and wept in front of it, and cried and wept.  I thought what if that wuz Josiah that sot there with that agony in his face, and that desolation in his heart, and I couldn’t comfort him—­

Couldn’t say to him:  “Josiah, we’ll bear it together.”

I wuz fearful overcome.

[Illustration:  I cried and wept in front of it, and cried and wept.]

And then there wuz another picter called “Breakin’ Home Ties.”

A crowd always stood before that.

It wuz a boy jest a-settin’ out to seek his fortune.  The breakfast-table still stood in the room.  The old grandma a-settin’ there still; time had dulled her vision for lookin’ forward.  She wuz a-lookin’ into the past, into the realm that had held so many partin’s for her, and mebby lookin’ way over the present into the land of meetin’s.

The little girl with her hand on the old dog is too small to fully realize what it all means.

But in the mother’s face you can see the full meanin’ of the partin’—­the breakin’ of the old ties that bound her boy so fast to her in the past.

The lettin’ him go out into the evil world without her lovin’ watchfulness and love.  All the love that would fain go with him—­all the admonition that she would fain give him—­all the love and all the hope she feels for him is writ in her gentle face.

As for the boy, anticipation and dread are writ on his mean, but the man is waitin’ impatient outside to take him away.  The partin’ must come.

You turn away, glad you can’t see that last kiss.

Then there wuz “Holy Night,” the Christ Child, with its father and mother, and some surroundin’ worshippers of both sects.

Mary’s face held all the sweetness and strength you’d expect to see in the mother of our Lord.  And Joseph looked real well too—­quite well.

Josiah said that “the halos round his head and Mary’s looked some like big white plates.”

But I sez, “You hain’t much of a judge of halos, anyway.  Mebby if you should try to make a few halos you’d speak better of ’em.”

I often think this in the presence of critics, mebby if they should lay holt and paint a few picters, they wouldn’t find fault with ’em so glib.  It looks real mean to me to see folks find so much fault with what they can’t do half so well themselves.

Then there wuz the wimmen at the tomb of the Christ.  The door is open, the Angel is begenin’ for ’em to enter.

In the faces of them weepin’, waitin’ wimmen is depictered the very height and depth of sorrow.  You can’t see the face of one on ’em, but her poster gives the impression of absolute grief and loss.

The quiverin’ lips seems formin’ the words—­“Farwell, farwell, best beloved.”

Deathless love shines through the eyes streamin’ with tears.

In the British section there wuz one picter that struck such a deep blow onto my heart that its strings hain’t got over vibratin’ still.