"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 Eighth. 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: