he was looking absently at the toe of one shoe, so my sympathetic glance was thrown away on him. He went on in a sort of soliloquy:—
"She died when I was so young that I cannot remember her at all; but I have always loved the name, and I never was more startled than when I heard them call you by it."
I looked hard at my companion. He was the same man, apparently; but what wonderful change had come over him to make him speak in such a sad, soft voice and tell me about his mother? I did not know what to respond. I could think of nothing but "Oh," or "Yes," or "Indeed"; and they sounded neither sympathetic nor appropriate. So I kept silent, and grew quite embarrassed, as Mr. Thurber did not seem inclined to speak first. Finally, he turned his gaze away from the toe of his shoe,—which, by the by, is altogether too pointed for any reasonable foot, as I shall tell him some time when we are conversing on more ordinary topics,—and, playing with my fan in a nervous way, he remarked,—
"Your cousin is a very beautiful woman."
I groaned inwardly. Was I to be confided in for the third time that night? It was growing monotonous, and yet it was funny, and I smiled. My English friend saw the smile. He colored slightly, and started up from his chair; then thought better of it, and sat down again. I turned towards him, and spoke in a low, earnest voice:—
"Mr. Thurber, the only reason I laughed was because—because—well, I have heard that remark so
