'em?" This was a challenge.

"Yes, I think there is. In the first place, I know you will understand
me when I say they are handsome eyes, and I'm free to confess that they
had a queer influence on me, I imagined they changed and expressed
things and--"

"Talked, eh."

"Well, yes." Then I told Hopkins the influence the "Eyes" had on me.

He listened intently, watching me; when I had finished, he came over,
reached out his hand and said:

"Shake, friend, you're a damned good fellow."

I thought Hopkins had been drinking--or looking at "Her Eyes." He pulled
up a chair and lit a cigar.

"John," said he, "it isn't every man that can understand what my wife
says. Only kindred spirits can read the language of the eyes. _She
hasn't spoken an audible word in ten years_, but she talks with her
eyes, even her picture talks. We, rather she, is a mystery here; people
believe all kinds of things about her and us; but we don't care. I want
you to come up to the house some evening and know her better. We'll be
three chums, I know it, but don't ask questions; you will know things
later on."

Before I ever went to Hopkins' house, he had told her all about me, and
when he introduced us, he said:

"Madeline, this is the friend who says your picture talked to him."

I bowed low to the lady and tried to put myself and her at ease.

"Mrs. Hopkins, I'm afraid your husband is poking fun at me, and thinks
my liver is out of order, but, really, I did imagine I saw changing
expression in your eyes in that picture--in fact, I named you 'My Lady
of the Eyes.'"

She laughed--with her eyes--held out her hands and made me welcome.

"That name is something like mine," said Hopkins, "I call her Talking
Eyes.'"

Then Hopkins brought in his little three-year-old daughter, who
immediately climbed on my knee, captured my watch, and asked:

"What oo name?"

"John," said I.

"Don, Don," she repeated; "my name Maddie."

"That's Daddy's chum," put in Hopkins.

"Tum," repeated Maddie.

"Uncle Chummy," said Hopkins.

"Untle Tummie."

And I was "Untle Tummie" to little Madeline and "Chummy" to Hopkins and
his wife from then on.

Mrs. Hopkins wore her veil at home as well as abroad, but it was so
neatly arranged and worn so naturally that I soon became entirely used
to it, in fact, didn't notice it. Otherwise, she was a well-dressed,
handsomely set up woman, a splendid musician and a capital companion.
She sat at her work listening,