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:  

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