"When she came to see me the other day," Mrs. Bates continued, "it was like a whiff of air from the old times. It was like one of the Old Settler receptions that the Calumet people used to give--only better. Why did they stop them, I wonder? Are the old settlers giving out? Or has the town become too proud and indifferent? Or what?" "I'm afraid it's the fault of the old settlers themselves," responded Marshall, with a grave and quiet smile. "They won't stay to be received." "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Bates, with a soft little sigh. "They are dropping off one by one. David!" she exclaimed suddenly, leaning forward with a wistful smile, "we ought never to have drifted apart as we did. We ought not to have lost sight of each other for all these years. I'm sure"--in earnest questioning--"that we remember enough about the old times to care to see each other once in a while still?" Marshall dropped his eyes to his desk, and his long, lean fingers picked out the border of its blue baize covering. He was half touched, half embarrassed. "I hope so," he said. "What gay times we used to have!" she went on, still determined, despite his meagre response, upon an evocation of their youthful past. "Such dances and sleigh-rides, and everything! You were ever so good to me in those old days; I haven't forgotten how you took me to the Diorama and the Bell-Ringers and what all besides. And 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' too--I'm sure I should never have seen it but for you; certainly I haven't had much disposition to see it of _late_ years--especially since they have put the blood-hounds in! And there was Topsy and Eva, too--oh, dear, I believe I should like to see it again, after all; don't they give it over on the West Side now and then? You must remember how they wore those tall pointed hats and those red petticoats and those black velvet bands across themselves in front--not the blood-hounds--and how they had the bells on different little tables according to their size--not Topsy and Eva; I'm talking about the Peake family, you understand. And there was Adelina Patti, too--a mere slip of a girl, in the quaintest little old clothes. I go every time she comes; I wouldn't miss one of her farewells for anything. You go, too, I suppose?" "The same old Sue," he said, smiling. "I? No; I haven't seen her since that first time, so long ago." "Yes," she cried, "I _am_ the same old Sue; and I always shall be to the friends of those dear old days! But you, David--how is it with you yourself?"