"Mrs. Hopkins, I'm afraid your husband is poking fun at me, and thinks my liver is out of order, but, really, I did imagine I saw changing expression in your eyes in that picture--in fact, I named you 'My Lady of the Eyes.'" She laughed--with her eyes--held out her hands and made me welcome. "That name is something like mine," said Hopkins, "I call her 'Talking Eyes.'" Then Hopkins brought in his little three-year-old daughter, who immediately climbed on my knee, captured my watch, and asked: "What oo name?" "John," said I. "Don, Don," she repeated; "my name Maddie." "That's Daddy's chum," put in Hopkins. "Tum," repeated Maddie. "Uncle Chummy," said Hopkins. "Untle Tummie." And I was "Untle Tummie" to little Madeline and "Chummy" to Hopkins and his wife from then on. Mrs. Hopkins wore her veil at home as well as abroad, but it was so neatly arranged and worn so naturally that I soon became entirely used to it, in fact, didn't notice it. Otherwise, she was a well-dressed, handsomely set up woman, a splendid musician and a capital companion. She sat at her work listening, while Hopkins and I "railroaded" and argued about politics, and religion and everything else under the sun. Mrs. Hopkins took sides freely; a glance at her eyes told where she stood on any question. Between "Scar Face" Hopkins and his handsome wife there appeared to be perfect sympathy and confidence. Sitting in silence, they glanced from one to the other now and again, smiled, nodded--and understood. I was barred from the house for a month during the winter because little Madeline had the scarlet fever, then epidemic, but it was reported a light case and I contented myself with sending her toys and candy. One day I dropped into Hopkins' office to make inquiry, when a clerk told me Hopkins had not been to the office for several days. Mrs. Hopkins was sick. I made another round trip and inquired again, and got the same answer; then I went up to the house. The officious quarantine guard was still walking up and down in front of the Hopkins residence. To a single inquiry, this voluble functionary volunteered the information that the baby was all right now, but the lady herself was very sick with scarlet fever. Hopkins was most crazy, no trained nurses could be had for love nor money, the doctor was coming three times a day, and did I know that Mrs. Hopkins was some kind of a foreign Dago, and the whole outfit "queer?" Hopkins was in trouble; I pushed open the gate and started up the walk. "Hey, young feller, where yer goin'," demanded the guard. "Into the house, of course." "D'ye know if you go in ye got to stay for the next two weeks?" "Perfectly." "Then go on, you darned fool." And I went on. Hopkins met me, hollow-eyed and haggard. "Chum," said he, "you've come to prison, but I'm glad. Help is out of reach. If you can take care of Maddie, the girl will do the cooking and I will--I will do my duty."