It is said that if you wish to know the character of a man, ask his neighbors. Well, one of mine told another that Japhet always built a fire on cold mornings on purpose to warm the flies. Another said, “Japhet never sees a lame cur on the road but he takes him in and puts splinters and ointment on his legs.” If I know myself I think my chief characteristic is to sympathize with the under dog in a fight, particularly if he is a weak, helpless creature and the other a great bull dog of a thing. Alas! there are so many big dogs in the world. I am wicked enough, but do not like to be considered worse than I really am. Another thought. I am not opposed to marriage between people of different races, if it be a true marriage. If a European wishes to marry an Asiatic or an African woman, by all means let him do so, and then let him treat her as his wife in every respect. If he have children, let him be man enough to acknowledge them as his, educate and take care of them, so that they may love him as their father instead of despising and cursing him. Here beginneth another chapter of my life. CHAPTER XXVII. One day at some sports enjoyed by the public I was introduced to a Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth, visiting at our station and just from “home.” The lady, for I am sure she was a lady, from the grateful news she brought me, said, “I have some pleasant words for you. At Brighton we met Mrs. Beresford, a charming woman, and just as we were leaving she remarked, ‘When you return to India, if you ever meet a Mr. Japhet, give him my kindest regards,’ and with a smile she added, ‘and my love.’ You know what it means, I suppose; I don’t, and Mrs. Beresford hadn’t time to say anything more.” This was so sudden from a stranger, and so incomprehensible, as I could not think who could send me such a greeting and in words so full of meaning, that I felt a blush running all over me. I tried to be as cool as possible, and calmly remarked that I was not acquainted with any Mrs. Beresford, and could not surmise who she could be. Mrs. Wentworth replied that she was formerly Miss McIntyre, that her husband had died and she was now a widow. At the mention of that name my heart commenced a thumping as if this was its own affair entirely, as it certainly was. If ever I was grateful that my color did not permit me to blush in the Caucasian fashion, it was then. I replied in an off-hand manner that I remembered having met Miss McIntyre somewhere. However, I was very careful to ask where she was residing and to get her post address, and also requested Mrs. Wentworth when she wrote to her to give her my kindest regards, and in a joking way I added, “also my love.” It was no joke to me though. The very mention of that name sent a thrill—but why should I pin my heart on my sleeve for every daw to peck at?