It made my blood run cold to hear the oaths those innocent creatures poured out on me all day. The parrot followed me around, and perked his head on one side, as much as to say, “Aren’t they apt pupils?” but he never opened his mouth to talk--and there really wasn’t any need. They kept me supplied with conversation on their quiet doings, all interlarded with their new-found “Spanish,” until it was time to go to bed. I hadn’t the heart to tell them that the tongue in which they were so fluent was not Spanish; and as their hearts were as pure as a baby’s, and they saw no one, I said nothing; but when I left, early next morning, I was careful to bid them good-by out of ear-shot of the stage-coach, and it’s lucky I did, for the torrent of billingsgate that they poured fondly over me would have caused the occupants of the coach to think entirely unwarranted things of the old ladies. [Illustration] As I climbed up to the seat by the driver, a man got out of the stage and walked up to the house. “Good heavens! who’s that?” I asked of the driver. “Thet,” said he, “is the Methody preacher makin’ his quarterly visit to th’ old ladies.” VIII “TO MEET MR. CAVENDISH” The card read, “To meet Mr. Cavendish.” I had not been in Boston long, and I must confess to a poor head for names, so I had no idea who Mr. Cavendish was or what he had done, but as he was to be at Mrs. Emerson’s, I knew he had done something. There were only five guests there, besides Mr. Cavendish, when I arrived, and after we were introduced it so happened that Cavendish and I found ourselves talking together. He looked tired, so I said as a starter: “Don’t you find your work exhausting?” I thought I’d play “twenty questions” with him, and determine what he had done. “Sometimes it is, very. The expenditure of force fairly makes my throat ache.” It was easy. He was probably a Wagnerian singer. “I suppose you have to be very careful about your throat.” “Why, no,” he said; “I never think about my throat.” He wasn’t a singer. “Well, you’re in love with your art.” He smiled. “Yes, I’m in love with it.” I was in despair. What was he? But now I would nail him. “What are your methods of work, Mr. Cavendish?” “Oh, I don’t spend much time in over-elaboration. My brush-strokes are very broad.” Ah, a painter! “Exactly,” I said. “You like a free hand.” He said: “After all, the words are everything.” Ah, a writer! “Yes,” said I; “your words are everything to the public.” “I hope so. I try to make them so,” he said modestly. Now I felt easier, and proceeded to praise him specifically. “Which do you like best--to make your public laugh or cry? or do you aim to instruct it?” “It is easy to make persons laugh, so I suppose I like rather to bring them to tears. As for instruction, there are those who say it is not our province to instruct.” “But you do all three, Mr. Cavendish.” He bowed as if he thought I had hit it.