"Yass, sah, dass me; I's Clemence." But Frowenfeld was looking another way.
"You know my boy," suddenly said she.
Frowenfeld looked at her.
"Yass, sah.

Dat boy w'at bring you de box of _basilic_ lass Chrismus; dass my boy." She straightened her cakes on the tray and made some changes in their arrangement that possibly were important.
"I learned to speak English in Fijinny.

Bawn dah." She looked steadily into the apothecary's absorbed countenance for a full minute, then let her eyes wander down the highway.

The human tide was turning cityward.

Presently she spoke again.
"Folks comin' home a'ready, yass." Her hearer looked down the road.
Suddenly a voice that, once heard, was always known,--deep and pompous, as if a lion roared,--sounded so close behind him as to startle him half from his seat.
"Is this a corporeal man, or must I doubt my eyes?
Hah! Professor Frowenfeld!" it said.
"Mr.Fusilier!" exclaimed Frowenfeld in a subdued voice, while he blushed again and looked at the new-comer with that sort of awe which children experience in a menagerie.
"_Citizen_ Fusilier," said the lion.
Agricola indulged to excess the grim hypocrisy of brandishing the catchwords of new-fangled reforms; they served to spice a breath that was strong with the praise of the "superior liberties of Europe,"-- those old, cast-iron tyrannies to get rid of which America was settled.
Frowenfeld smiled amusedly and apologetically at the same moment.
"I am glad to meet you.