ing still, when Mr. Bradford, who had been forced to
silence as well as the rest, threw himself back with a sigh of relief
and exclaimed, "This man talks like a woman!" I thought it the best
description of Mr. T----t's conversation I had ever heard. It was all
on the surface, no pretensions to anything except to put the greatest
possible number of words of no meaning in one sentence, while speaking
of the most trivial thing. Night or day, Mr. T----t never passed home
without crying out to me, "_Ces jolis yeux bleus!_" and if the parlor
were brightly lighted so that all from the street might see us, and be
invisible to us themselves, I always nodded my head to the outer
darkness and laughed, no matter who was present, though it sometimes
created remark. You see, I knew the joke. Coming from a party escorted
by Mr. B----r, Miriam by Mr. T----t,[1] we had to wait a long time
before Rose opened the door, which interval I employed in dancing up
and down the gallery--followed by my cavalier--singing,--

"Mes jolis yeux bleus,
Bleus comme les cieux,
Mes jolis yeux bleus
Ont ravi son ame," etc.;

which naive remark Mr. B----r, not speaking French, lost entirely, and
Mr. T----t endorsed it with his approbation and belief in it, and ever
afterwards called me "_Ces jolis yeux bleus_."

[1] Note added at the time: "O propriety! Gibbes and Lydia were
with us too."

April 19th, 1862.

Another date in Hal's short history! I see myself walking home with Mr.
McG---- just after sundown, meeting Miriam and Dr. Woods at the gate;
only that was a Friday instead of a Saturday, as this. From the other
side, Mr. Sparks comes up and joins us. We stand talking in the bright
moonlight which makes Miriam look white and statue-like. I am holding
roses in my hand, in return for which one little pansy has been begged
from my garden, and is now figuring as a shirt-stud. I turn to speak to
that man of whom I said to Dr. Woods, before I even knew his name, "Who
is this man who passes here so constantly? I feel that I shall hate him
to my dying day." He told me his name was Sparks, a good, harmless
fellow, etc. And afterwards, when I did know him, [Dr. Woods] would ask
every time we met, "Well! do you hate Sparks yet?" I could not really
hate any one in my heart, so I always answered, "He is a good-natured
fool, but I will hate him yet." But even now I cannot: my only f