Fine fellow he was, too."
"Yes he was. And what a pretty little thing his child was!"
"You may well say that. I never saw a prettier child."
"I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play
with it."
"So did I."
"You named it. What WAS that name? I can't call it
to mind."
It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty
thin, here. I would have given something to know
what the child's was. However, I had the good luck
to think of a name that would fit either sex - so I brought it
out:
"I named it Frances."
"From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died,
too - one that I never saw. What did you call that one?"
I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead
and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name
for it and trust to luck. Therefore I said:
"I called that one Thomas Henry."
She said, musingly:
"That is very singular ... very singular."
I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was
in a good deal of trouble, but I believed I could worry
through if she wouldn't ask me to name any more children.
I wondered where the lightning was going to strike next.
She was still ruminating over that last child's title,
but presently she said:
"I have always been sorry you were away at the time - I
would have had you name my child."
"YOUR child! Are you married?"
"I have been married thirteen years."
"Christened, you mean."
`"No, married. The youth by your side is my son."
"It seems incredible - even impossible. I do not mean
any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you
are any over eighteen? - that is to say, will you tell
me how old you are?"
"I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were
talking about. That was my birthday."
That did not help matters, much, as I did not know
the date of the storm. I tried to think of some
non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk,
and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences
as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be
about out of non-committal things. I was about to say,
"You haven't changed a bit since then" - but that was risky.
I thought of saying, "You have improved ever so much
since then" - but that wouldn't answer, of course.
I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change,
when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said:
"How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times
- haven't you?"
"I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!"
said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a
near approach to truth, "and I would rather be scalped
than spend another one like it." I was holily grateful
to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make
my good-bys and get out, when the girl said:
"But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me."
"Why, what is that?"
"That dead child's name. What did you say it was?"
Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the
child's name; I hadn't imagined it would be needed again.
However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said:
"Joseph William."
The youth at my side corrected me, and said:
"No, Thomas Henry."
I thanked him - in words - and said, with trepidation:
"O yes - I was thinking of another child that I named - I
have named a great many, and I get them confused - this
one was named Henry Thompson - "
"Thomas Henry," calmly interposed the boy.
I thanked him again - strictly in words - and stammered
out:
"Thomas Henry - yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name.
I named him for Thomas - er - Thomas Carlyle, the great author,
you know - and Henry - er - er - Henry the Eight. The parents
were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry."
"That makes it more singular than ever," murmured my
beautiful friend.
"Does it? Why?"
"Because when the parents speak of that child now,
they always call it Susan Amelia."
That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely
out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie,
and that I would not do; so I simply sat still and suffered
- sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled - for I
was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes.
Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:
"I HAVE enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not.
I saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me,
and so as I had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning,
I made up my mind to punish you. And I have succeeded
pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George and Tom
and Darley, for I had never heard of them before and therefore
could not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn
the names of those imaginary children, too. One can get
quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at
it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweeping away
of the forward boats, were facts - all the rest was fiction.
Mary was my sister; her full name was Mary - - - . NOW
do you remember me?"
"Yes," I said, "I do remember you now; and you are as
hard-headed as you were thirteen years ago in that ship,
else you wouldn't have punished me so. You haven't
change your nature nor your person, in any way at all;
you look as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful
as you were then, and you have transmitted a deal
of your comeliness to this fine boy.
