ing pieces of glass and paper into various solutions, knows with what eagerness he waits for the blank black squares and strips to come to life, break out into spots of light, which gradually assume familiar shapes and contours. It's like watching a dawn. It's like watching clouds and a pale drab sea, and the fleck of a white sail flower slowly from out of a lifting fog. It's exciting almost. There's something about it that reminds one of the Creation according to Genesis. For, beneath your very fingers, in the course of a few minutes from out of utter blackness a little world is formed. Imagine, if you can, how eagerly Constance must have watched that which took place upon her sensitized plate of life, when France proved to be the correct developing solution to bring out the picture long hidden upon it—when to her wondering eyes her various ventures, which had so long looked to her like nothing but a befuddled mass of spots and splotches, began slowly justifying themselves. She was in a continual state of wanting to exclaim out loud over the gradually unfolding miracle.
"Why, I see now! Of course! Of course!" she would whisper again and again, as the succeeding days called into service various scraps of knowledge and experience picked up here and there in her experiments.
