I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change, when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said: "How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times--haven't you ?" "I never have spent such a half-hour in all my life before!" said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a near approach to truth, "and I would rather be scalped than spend another one like it." I was holily grateful to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make my good-bys and get out, when the girl said: "But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me." "Why, what is that ?" "That dead child's name.

What did you say it was ?" Here was another balmy place to be in: I had forgotten the child's name; I hadn't imagined it would be needed again.

However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said: "Joseph William." The youth at my side corrected me, and said: "No, Thomas Henry." I thanked him--in words--and said, with trepidation: "O yes--I was thinking of another child that I named--I have named a great many, and I get them confused--this one was named Henry Thompson--" "Thomas Henry," calmly interposed the boy.
I thanked him again--strictly in words--and stammered out: "Thomas Henry--yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's name.

I named him for Thomas--er--Thomas Carlyle, the great author, you know--and Henry--er--er--Henry the Eighth.

The parents were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry." "That makes it more singular than ever," murmured my beautiful friend.
"Does it?
Why ?" "Because when the parents speak of that child now, they always call it Susan Amelia." That spiked my gun.