Sleep Story: The Girl In The Photograph

Drift into a peaceful night's sleep with The Girl in the Photograph by Lucy Maud Montgomery, a gently narrated bedtime story designed to help you unwind, relax, and let go of the day.

This charming classic begins with a chance meeting beneath the pines, a misplaced photograph, and a correspondence that unfolds years later. Exploring themes of memory, mistaken identity, hope, and enduring love, Montgomery's timeless storytelling creates a soothing atmosphere perfect for quiet evenings and restful sleep.

This sleep story uses slow, calming narration to encourage relaxation and provide a gentle distraction from racing thoughts. Whether you're settling into bed, managing insomnia, easing anxiety, or simply looking for a comforting bedtime companion, allow this classic tale to carry you peacefully toward sleep.

Transcript

Hello my friends and welcome back to Drift Off. I'm Joanne and I'm so glad you're here with me tonight. Wherever you're listening from, Tucked into bed, Lights already dim, Or just beginning to let the day slip away. . . Take a moment now to settle in. There's nowhere else you need to be. Nothing left to do tonight but rest. Tonight I'll be reading you another gentle story from Lucy Maud Montgomery. The third one of hers I've shared with you this month if you've been keeping track. I hope you don't mind me returning to her again and again. She's simply one of my very favorite authors. And there's something about her writing that I keep finding myself drawn back to night after night. Tonight's story is called The Girl in the Photograph, A quieter, Lesser-known tale of hers, Full of her usual warmth and tender understanding of the human heart. I'll be honest with you. Lately, My soul has just been craving these old, Simple stories. There's something about the world Montgomery writes about that feels so far removed. From all the noise and complexity of modern life. And I find real comfort in slowing down with her words. I hope wherever you are tonight, You're finding a little of that same comfort too. I won't tell you too much more before we begin. I'd rather you simply let the story unfold slowly the way it's meant to. But first, Let's take a few minutes to settle in together. Find your favorite position now. One your body seems to melt into without even trying. Let your shoulders drop away from your ears. Let your jaw loosen. Let your hands go soft and still. If it feels right Take a slow breath in. Hold it gently and let it go. Whatever you carried with you into today. You can set it down now. Right now, There's nothing to solve. Nothing to remember. Nothing to do. Feel your body growing heavier with each breath. Your legs heavy and warm. Your arms heavy and still Even your eyelids feel heavy now. Soft and warm, Like they simply don't want to stay open any longer. You are safe. You are exactly where you need to be And so, My friend. There's nothing left to do now but rest. And listen. And let your mind grow quiet. And when you're ready. Let's begin. When I heard that Peter Austin was in Vancouver, I went looking for him. I had met Peter 10 years earlier. When I had traveled east to visit my father's family and spent a few weeks with an uncle in Croydon. The Austens lived just across the street from Uncle Tom. And Peter and I had become friends. Even though he was an awkward, Gangly 16-year-old. An eye at 22. Was older and wiser and more dignified than I've been at any point since, Or ever expect to be again. Peter was a jolly little round-faced, Freckled boy. He was perfectly fine company when there were no girls around. But the moment any appeared, He'd shrink into himself like a sullen oyster. And was about as much fun to talk to. That was really the only thing we ever disagreed about. Peter couldn't stand girls. I, On the other hand, Was devoted to them, One and all. The girls in Croydon were pretty and full of life. And I managed a good number of small flirtations during my short time in London. But when I finally left. . . The face that stayed with me wasn't that of any girl I'd walked with or driven with or played hearts with that summer. It was 10 years ago now. But I've never quite been able to forget that girl's face. Even though I'd seen it only once, And then just for a moment. I had gone off alone one evening for a walk through the woods above the river. And in a quiet little valley shaded by pines where I thought I was completely alone. I came upon her suddenly. She was standing, Ankle deep in ferns, On the bank of a brook. The late evening light falling gold across her bare dark hair. She couldn't have been more than 16, And yet her face and eyes already belonged to a grown woman. What a face it was. Beautiful, Yes, But that thought only came to me afterward, Once I was alone again. In the moment, Looking at her. All I could think of was how pure and sweet that face seemed, And the depth of soul and mind shining out through those wide grey-blue eyes, Which looked almost black there in the shadow of the pines. There was something in that young woman's face I had never seen before and would never see again in anyone else. Careless boy that I was, It moved me right down to my core. It felt, Somehow, As though she'd been waiting in that quiet pine valley for me all along. And that in finding her, I had found everything good that life could ever offer me. I would have spoken to her. But before I could arrange my greeting into something that wouldn't sound rude or too forward. She had already turned and gone. Stepping lightly across the brook and disappearing into the maple grove beyond. I had only gazed into her face for about ten seconds, But in that brief moment, The real woman behind that lovely exterior had looked straight back into my eyes and I had never been able to forget it since. When I got back home, I asked my cousins as carefully as I could. Who she might be. I felt strangely reluctant to even ask. It seemed almost wrong somehow. As though I'd be intruding on something sacred. And yet, It was the only way I might have a chance of finding her. But they couldn't tell me a thing. Nor did I ever run into her again during the rest of my stay in Croydon, Though I never went anywhere without watching for her. And I return to that pine valley every single day. Hoping I might catch a sign of her once more. My disappointment grew so sharp in the end that I couldn't help but laugh at myself over it. I thought I was a fool to feel that way about a girl I'd only met for a moment on a chance walk. A mere child, Really. Still wearing her hair and a long, Glossy schoolgirl braid. But whenever I remembered her eyes, My good sense forgave me for it. Well, That was 10 years ago now. In those ten years, I'll admit, The memory had grown dimmer. Out here in our busy western life, A man doesn't have much time for sentimental daydreaming. And your hat. I'd never quite managed to care for another woman. I wanted to though. I wanted to marry and settle down. I'd reached the point in life where a man grows tired of drifting and starts longing for some calm, Steady harbor of his own. But somehow, I kept putting it off. It just seemed easier to let things be. It was around this time that Peter came west. He was working at a bank by then. Still just as round and cheerful as ever, Though he'd clearly had a change of heart about girls, Because his rooms were covered in their photographs. They were tucked in everywhere. And every one of them was pretty. Either Peter had developed excellent taste, Or the photographers back in Croydon simply knew how to flatter their subjects. But one photo on the mantle caught my eye above all the rest. If the picture could be trusted. This girl was easily the prettiest I'd ever laid eyes on. Peter Who is this pretty girl's picture on your mantle? I called out to him. He was in his bedroom, Getting dressed for some evening function. That's my cousin, Mary and Lindsay, He called back. She's rather nice looking, Isn't she? Lives in Croydon now. Used to live up the river in Chislehurst. Didn't you ever run into her while you were in Croydon? No, I said. If I had, I wouldn't have forgotten a face like that. Well, She'd have only been a kid back then, Of course. She's 26 now. Marion's a mighty nice girl, But she's headed straight for old maidhood, Mark my words. She's got notions. Ideals, She calls them. Every fellow in Croydon has fallen for her at one time or another, But they might as well have gone courting a statue. Honestly, Marion hasn't got a spark of real feeling or sentiment in her. Her looks are the best part of her. Well, She's clever as anything, I'll give her that. Peter spoke rather unsteadily, And I suspected he might have been one of her smitten admirers himself once upon a time. I looked at the photo a while longer, Admiring it more with every passing minute. And when I heard Peter coming out of his room, I did something entirely unjustifiable. I slipped the photo into my pocket. I expected Peter would kick up a fuss once he noticed it missing, But that very night, The house he was living in burned straight to the ground. Peter managed to escape with the most important of his belongings, But all the photographic likenesses of his various sweethearts went up in smoke along with everything else. If he ever gave Mary and Lindsay's picture a second thought, He must have simply assumed it had met the same fate as the rest. As for me, I set my ill-gotten little treasure up on my own mantle and admired it faithfully for a full two weeks. At the end of that time, I worked up my nerve and went to Peter, Asking him to write his cousin a letter introducing me, And to see whether she might agree to a friendly correspondence. Strangely enough, I didn't do this without some hesitation, Even though by that point, I was about as in love with Mary and Lindsay. As a man could be with nothing more than a photograph to go on. I found myself thinking of the girl I'd seen in the pine woods all those years ago, And felt a small, Reluctant tug inside me, As though this step might carry me even further from ever finding her. But I scolded myself for such nonsense. It was wildly unlikely I'd ever cross paths with that girl from the pines again. If she was even still alive. She was probably some other man's wife by now. I resolve not to think of it any further. Peter let out a low whistle when he heard what I had to say. Of course I'll do it, Old man, " he said, Always obliging. But fair warning, I don't think it'll do much good. Marion isn't the sort of girl to start up a correspondence that way. Still, I'll do my best for you. Do that. Tell her I'm a respectable fellow. No bad habits to speak of. All that sort of thing. I mean it, Peter. I want to get to know that girl, And right now. This seems the only way I can manage it. I can't get away for a trip east just now. Explain all that to her and use whatever cousinly influence you've got on my behalf, If you've got any at all. Peter Grend. It's not exactly a graceful task you're handing me, Curtis, " he said. I don't mind admitting now that I was pretty far gone on marrying myself a couple years back. It's all over now, But it wasn't easy while it lasted. Maybe she'll look more kindly on your request if I frame it as a favor to me instead. She probably feels she owes me something after wrecking my life the way she did. He grinned again and glanced over at the one photograph he'd managed to save from the fire. A pretty little snub-nosed girl. She wouldn't have made up for the loss of Mary and Lindsay, Not in my eyes. But then, Every man has his own taste. In due time, Peter sought me out to deliver his cousin's answer. Congratulations, Curtis. You've out-Caesar'd Caesar. You've conquered without even going to see her. Marion's agreed to a friendly correspondence with you. I'll admit, I'm amazed, Even though I did paint you up as some sort of Sir Galahad and Lancelot rolled into one. I'm not used to seeing proud old Marion do things like this, And it rather takes my breath away. I wrote to Mary and Lindsay after allowing myself one last farewell dream of the girl beneath the pines. Once Marion's letters began arriving regularly, I forgot the other one entirely. And what letters they were. Witty, Sparkling, Clever, Warm, Thoroughly delightful letters. They finished the conquest her photograph had begun. Before we'd been writing to each other even six months, I was hopelessly in love with a woman I'd never once laid eyes on. Eventually, I wrote and told her so, And asked her to marry me. Two weeks later, Her answer arrived. She told me plainly that she believed she'd come to care for me over the course of our letters, But that she felt we ought to meet in person before settling anything for certain. Could I not manage a visit to Croydon that summer? Until then, She thought it best we continue on as we were. I agreed, Though privately I already considered myself as good as engaged and thought our eventual meeting as little more than a nod to convention. From then on, I allowed myself a distinctly more affectionate tone in my letters, And I took it as a good sign that I wasn't scolded for it, Even though Marion's own letters kept their same easy, Simple friendliness throughout. Peter had teased me mercilessly about the whole thing at first, But once he noticed I didn't care for the ribbing, He let it drop. Peter was always a decent sword. He could see I was taking the matter seriously, And when I left for the East, He saw me off with a grin softened by real sympathy and understanding. Good luck to you, He said. If you win Mary and Lindsay, You'll be winning a real pearl among women. I still can't quite wrap my head around her taking to you the way she has. It's so unlike her. But since she clearly has, You're a lucky man. I arrived in Croydon at dusk and went straight to Uncle Tom's. I found the household busy with preparations for a party being held that very night in honor of a friend visiting my cousin Edna. I was secretly annoyed by the timing. Since all I wanted was to rush straight to Marion. But I couldn't very well slip away. And on second thought, I found some comfort in the idea that she'd likely be at the party herself. I knew she moved in the same social circle as Uncle Tom's daughters. Still, I would have preferred our first meeting to happen under different circumstances. From my spot behind the palms in a corner of the room. I watch the guests arrive, Scanning each face eagerly. Then suddenly, My heart gave a great leap. Marion Lindsay had just walked in. I recognized her at once from her photograph. It hadn't flattered her one bit. If anything, It hadn't done her justice, Since the lovely coloring of her hair and complexion were lost entirely in it. She was, Besides, Dressed with a taste and polish thoroughly fit for the future Mrs. Eric Curtis. I felt a little thrill of proprietary pride as I stepped out from behind the palms. She was speaking with Aunt Grace at the time, But her eyes drifted over to me. I expected some small flicker of recognition, Since I sent her a good photograph of myself. But her gaze held nothing but blank unfamiliarity. I felt a small pang of disappointment at not being recognized, Though I told myself, People only fail to place someone they've only ever seen in a photograph. No matter how good the likeness. I caught Edna as she passed by and said, Add now. I want you to introduce me to the girl talking with your mother. Edna La So you've fallen at first sight for our Croydon beauty? Of course I'll introduce you. Though, Fair warning, She's the most incorrigible flirt in Croydon, Or anywhere else for that matter, So mind yourself. It jarred on me to hear Marion call to flirt. It seemed so at odds with her letters, With the womanly warmth and delicacy they'd always shown. But I reminded myself that women sometimes have a hard time forgiving another woman who draws more than her fair share of admirers, And tend to get their revenge by branding her a flirt, Whether she deserves it or not. We'd cross the room while I was turning all this over in my mind. Marion turned and stood before us, Smiling at Edna, But showing not the slightest sign of recognizing me. There's something rather strange about waiting to be formally introduced to a girl you're practically engaged to. Dorothy dear, Said Edna, This is my cousin, Mr. Curtis from Vancouver. Eric, This is Ms. Armstrong. I suppose I bowed. " Habit carries us through all sorts of impossible moments without our even noticing. I couldn't tell you what I looked like or what I said, If I said anything at all. I don't think I gave away just how confused I was, Since Edna wandered off again without so much as a second glance at me. Dorothy Armstrong. Good heavens, Who was she? Where had this come from? Why? If this girl was Dorothy Armstrong. Then who on earth was Marion Lindsay? Who exactly was I engaged to? Somewhere, There had to be some terrible mistake, Because it seemed impossible that two girls in Croydon could look exactly like the photograph sitting in my suitcase at that very moment. I stammered like a nervous schoolboy. I, Oh, I, Your face seems familiar to me, Ms. Armstrong. I, I think I must have seen your photographs somewhere before. Probably in Peter Austin's collection, Ms. Armstrong said, Smiling. He had one of mine before he got burned down. How is he these days? Peter Oh, He's well, " I said vaguely. My thoughts were racing a hundred words a second by getting nowhere. I stood there staring at Miss Armstrong like a man under some kind of spell. She must have thought me an utter fool. Oh, By the way, Can you tell me, Do you know a Miss Lindsay here in Croydon? Miss Armstrong looked surprised and a touch bored. She clearly wasn't used to newly introduced young men asking after some other girl. Mary and Lindsay? Oh, Yes. Is she here tonight, I ask? No, Marion isn't going out to parties just now, On account of her Aunt Steph, The one who lived with them. Does she look anything like you? I asked, Sounding like a complete idiot. A flicker of amusement broke through Miss Armstrong's boredom. She'd probably decided by now that I was some sort of harmless lunatic. Like me? Not in the least. You couldn't find two people more different. Marion is quite dark-haired. I'm fair. Our features aren't alike in the slightest. Oh, Good evening, Jack. Yes, I believe I did promise you this dance. She gave me a small bow and swept off with Jack. I saw Aunt Grace bearing down on me and made my escape without a second thought. Back in my own room. I dropped into a chair and tried to piece the whole thing together. Where had the mistake crept in? How on earth had it happened? I closed my eyes and pictured Peter's room that day. And slowly recall that when I picked up Dorothy Armstrong's photograph, I noticed another one lying face down beside it. That must have been Marion Lindsay's. And Peter must have thought I meant that one instead. And now, What a position I found myself in. I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. I'd fallen in love with Dorothy Armstrong's photograph, As far as appearances went. She was the one I loved. And yet, I was practically engaged to another woman entirely. A woman who, Despite all our letters, Now felt, In the shock of this discovery, Like a complete stranger to me. It did no good telling myself that it was the mind and soul revealed in those letters that I truly loved. And that the mind and soul belong to Mary and Lindsay. It did no good remembering that Peter had called her pretty. On the outside, She was a stranger to me. Hers wasn't the face that had risen in my mind for nearly a year as the face of the woman I loved. Had any unlucky soul ever landed in such a predicament before? Well, There was only one thing to be done. I had to stand by my word. Marion Lindsay was the woman I'd asked to marry me, And it was her answer I'd come to receive. If that answer was yes, I'd simply have to accept it and put all thought of Dorothy Armstrong's pretty face out of my mind for good. The next evening, At sunset, I made my way to Glenwood, The Lindsay home. A truly eager lover no doubt would have gone earlier, But eager was certainly not what I felt. Marion was likely expecting me and had left instructions, Because the maid who answered the door led me straight to a small room tucked behind the stairs. A room that felt, The moment I stepped inside, Like someone's cherished private retreat. Its books, Pictures, And flowers all spoke quietly of a certain graceful femininity. Somehow it matched the letters. I didn't feel quite so much like a stranger anymore. Still, When I heard a light step on the stairs, My heart gave a painful lurch. I stood and turned toward the door, Though I couldn't quite bring myself to look up. The footsteps drew closer. I sensed a pale hand sweep the curtain aside at the entrance. I knew she had come into the room and was standing there before me. With some effort, I lifted my eyes and looked at her. She stood tall and graceful, Bathed in the ruby glow of sunset pouring through the window beside her. The light shimmered like something almost alive over her dark, Proud head, Her pale throat, And a face so perfectly lovely that the memory of Dorothy Armstrong's laughing prettiness faded away like a star at sunrise, Gone, Never quite to be recalled in daylight again. And yet It wasn't her beauty I found myself thinking of as I stood there, Spellbound. Instead, I seemed to see once more a quiet little valley full of whispering pines, And a girl standing in their shadow, Looking back at me with those same wide grey-blue eyes now looking at me from Mary and Lindsay's face. The very same face, Grown now into full womanhood that I had seen ten years before and loved. Yes, Loved ever since. I took an unsteady step forward. Marion, I said. When I got home that night, I burned Dorothy Armstrong's photograph. The next day, I went to my cousin Tom, Who runs the fashionable photography studio in Croydon. And after swearing him to secrecy, Asked him for one of Marion's most recent photographs. It's the only secret I've ever kept from my wife. Before we were married, Marion told me something. I always remembered you just as you looked that day beneath the pines, " she said. I was only a child then. But I think I loved you even more from that moment and every moment after. Whenever I dreamed the kind of dreams young girls dream about love, It was always your face that appeared. I had the advantage over you though. I knew your name. I'd heard of you. So when Peter wrote to me about you, I knew exactly who you were. That's why I agreed to write to you in the first place. I worried it might seem forward, Unbecoming of a young woman, But it felt like my one chance at happiness, And I took it, And I'm glad I did. I didn't answer her in words, But lovers will understand well enough how I answered instead. Sweet dreams my friend. Sleep well.

Reviews

Joanne, I can easily see why you love this author. This was such a sweet story. I definitely wasn't expecting this. Thank you so much for reading it. Namaste. 🙌🏻 🤗💜