The thing I had in my mind was not difficult. I meant to address her in the most respectful way and ask her to pardon me if her strong resemblance to a former acquaintance of mine was deceiving me; and when she should reply that the name I mentioned was not the name she bore, I meant to beg pardon again, most respectfully, and retire. There would be no harm done. I walked to her table, bowed to the gentleman, then turned to her and was about to begin my little speech when she exclaimed: "I KNEW I wasn't mistaken--I told John it was you! John said it probably wasn't, but I knew I was right. I said you would recognize me presently and come over; and I'm glad you did, for I shouldn't have felt much flattered if you had gone out of this room without recognizing me. Sit down, sit down--how odd it is--you are the last person I was ever expecting to see again." This was a stupefying surprise. It took my wits clear away, for an instant. However, we shook hands cordially all around, and I sat down. But truly this was the tightest place I ever was in. I seemed to vaguely remember the girl's face, now, but I had no idea where I had seen it before, or what name belonged with it. I immediately tried to get up a diversion about Swiss scenery, to keep her from launching into topics that might betray that I did not know her, but it was of no use, she went right along upon matters which interested her more: "Oh dear, what a night that was, when the sea washed the forward boats away--do you remember it?" "Oh, DON'T I!" said I--but I didn't. I wished the sea had washed the rudder and the smoke-stack and the captain away--then I could have located this questioner. "And don't you remember how frightened poor Mary was, and how she cried?" "Indeed I do!" said I. "Dear me, how it all comes back!" I fervently wished it WOULD come back--but my memory was a blank. The wise way would have been to frankly own up; but I could not bring myself to do that, after the young girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so I went on, deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue but never getting one. The Unrecognizable continued, with vivacity: "Do you know, George married Mary, after all?" "Why, no! Did he?" "Indeed he did. He said he did not believe she was half as much to blame as her father was, and I thought he was right. Didn't you?" "Of course he was. It was a perfectly plain case. I always said so." "Why, no you didn't!--at least that summer." "Oh, no, not that summer. No, you are perfectly right about that. It was the following winter that I said it." "Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least to blame --it was all her father's fault--at least his and old Darley's." It was necessary to say something--so I said: "I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing."