"No, I'll send you Madelene's. No, I'll send you the clock with the 'talking eyes.'" And standing at Hopkins's gate, the scar-faced man with the romance and I parted, like ships that meet, hail and pass on, never to meet again. Hopkins and I moved away from one another, each on his own course, across the seven seas of life. And all this happened almost twenty years ago. The other day, my office boy brought me a card that read, "Mrs. Henry Adams, Washington, D. C." "Is she a book agent?" I asked. "Nope, don't look like one." "Show her in." A young woman came in, looked at me hard for a moment, laid a package on my desk and asked, "Is this the Mr. Alexander who used to be an engineer?" I confessed. "I don't suppose you remember me," she asked. I put on my glasses and looked at her. No, I never--then she put her handkerchief up to her lips covering the lower part of her face; it was the face of Madelene Hopkins. "Yes," said I, "I remember you perfectly, seventeen or eighteen years ago you used to sit on my knee and call me 'Untle Tummy.' and I called you Maddie." Then we laughed and shook hands. "Mr. Alexander," said she, "In looking over some of father's papers, we came across a request that under certain conditions you were to be sent an old keepsake of his, a clock with mother's picture on it. I have brought it to you." "And your father and mother, what of them, my friend?" I asked, for the promise of that clock "under certain conditions" was coming back to me. "Haven't you heard, sir, poor papa and mama were lost in that awful wreck at Castleton, two years ago." And as I write, from the dial of "Scar Faced" Hopkins's clock "My Lady of the Eyes" looks down at me from across the mystery of eternity. The eyes do not change as once they did, or has age dimmed my sight and imagination? Long I look into their peaceful depths thinking of their story, and ask, "Dear Eyes, is it well with thee?"--and they seem to answer, "It is well." SOME FREAKS OF FATE I am just back from a visit to old scenes, old chums and old memories of my interesting experience on the western fringe of Uncle Sam's great, gray blanket--the plains. If some of these fellows who know more about writing than about running engines would only go out there for a year and keep their eyes and ears and brains open, and mouths shut, they could come home and write us some true stories that would make fiction-grinders exceedingly weary. The frontier attracts strong characters, men with pioneer spirit, men who are willing to sacrifice something, in order to gain an end; men with loves and men with hates. Bad men are there, some of them hunted from Eastern communities, perhaps, but you will find no fools and mighty few weak faces--there's character in every feature you look at.