ughter, was the most good-natured and
sunny-tempered of girls; she may have been fifteen at this time; she
inherited neither the handsomeness of her father nor the sharp-edged
cleverness of her mother; but she was lovable. Of the two boys, the
younger was named Hubert; he was about ten years old, small of his age,
and not robust in make or constitution. He was, however, a smart, rather
witty youth, a little precocious, perhaps, and able to take care of
himself. Some five and twenty years after the date of which I am now
writing I was at a large political dinner in New York and was there
introduced to a Mr. Thompson, who was the commissioner of public works,
and a party boss of no small caliber and power. He was an immense
personage, physically likewise, weighing fully three hundred pounds,
and, though not apparently advanced in years, a thorough man of the
world and of municipal politics. After we had conversed for a few
minutes, I was struck by a certain expression about my interlocutor's
eyebrows that recalled long-forgotten days and things. I remembered that
his name was Thompson, and had an impression that his initials were
H. O. "Are you little Hubert Thompson?" I suddenly demanded. "Why, of
course I am--all that's left of him!" he replied, with a laugh. So this
was the boy whom, a quarter of a century before, I could have held out
at arm's-length. We talked over the old days when we played together
about the Roman streets and ruins. Nothing more reveals the essential
strangeness of human life than this meeting after many years with
persons we have formerly known intimately, who are now so much changed
in outward guise. We feel the changes to be unreal, and yet, there they
are! Grover Cleveland was being groomed for his first Presidential term
then; Hubert was one of his supporters in New York, and he presented me
to the pyramidal man of destiny. Poor Hubert died, lamentably, not
long after. He was a good and affectionate son. He was perhaps too
kind-hearted and loyal for the political role which he enacted.

The elder Thompson boy was called Edmund, or, in my vernacular, Eddy.
There were in his nature a gravity, depth, and sweetness which won my
heart and respect, and we became friends in that intimate and complete
way that seems possible only to boys in their early teens. For that
matter, neither of us was yet over twelve; I think Eddy was part of
a year my junior. But you must search the annals of antiquity to fi