There is one thing Mr. Basher could do, and do more perfectly than any man I ever knew, and that was to blush. Blushing Basher was the title we gave him the first evening he was introduced at our club. It may be said that blushing was his normal condition. "Do you know," said Healy, the great portrait-painter, to me one day, speaking of Basher as a subject, "that I never painted a man whose complexion was so difficult to determine as that of your friend Basher?" "He has a warm complexion," said I. "Warm!" rejoined the artist. "Warm does not express it, say, red-hot." Old ladies would offer him their fans in the street-cars, and mischievous young damsels with cherry-colored ribbons [attached] to their hats look first at him, and then toy with the dangling ends of their ribbons, as much as to say: "Just this shade." Newsboys, seeing him pass, hailed one another with the information that "your uncle had beets for dinner," and wily policemen dogged his steps under the impression that he was making off with something that lay heavy on his conscience. But Mr. Basher's blushing face was nothing to his blushing heart, mind, or soul, or whatever it is that blushes inside of a man, and causes him to feel weak and faint, to get shaky at the knees, and bungling in speech. That he never finished a complete sentence is a fact too well known to need confirmation. Even on the day of his sacrifice, the charming Miss Criggles was obliged to come to his rescue; for, when he got as far as "Miss Criggles, will you have--" if that ready-witted young lady (thirty, if she was a day, you know) had not divined his purpose, and said what he just then lost the power of saying--"me, for your own," I do not think we would have seen a Mrs. Basher to this day. He had no better success in his attempts to converse with children. I remember, as he sat one day in my parlor, twiddling his thumbs, breaking down in his remarks, and his color coming and going in rapid succession, my little daughter Dolly climbed upon his knee, and covered him with confusion by saying to him: "Mi'ter Bashy, does 'oo ever say 'oor p'ayers?" "I--I--I, sometimes; a--" blundered Mr. Basher in reply, his knees beginning to involuntarily dandle the child up and down. "What does 'oo say?" persisted the little fairy, shaking her curls, and giving him an arch look. "I don't t'ink 'oo do." "Why--why--do you a--" Mr. Basher got out. "'Cause 'oo never 'members what 'oo's t'inkin' 'bout." Poor Basher could do nothing after that but stare vacantly at the wall, and smile a smile that is often seen on board a ship as soon as she reaches rough water. Certainly, in another sense little Dolly had put Mr. Basher completely at sea.