"I don't suppose you remember me," she asked.
I put on my glasses and looked at her. No, I never--then she put her
handkerchief up to her lips covering the lower part of her face; it was
the face of Madelene Hopkins.
"Yes," said I, "I remember you perfectly, seventeen or eighteen years
ago you used to sit on my knee and call me 'Untle Tummy.' and I called
you Maddie."
Then we laughed and shook hands.
"Mr. Alexander," said she, "In looking over some of father's papers, we
came across a request that under certain conditions you were to be sent
an old keepsake of his, a clock with mother's picture on it. I have
brought it to you."
"And your father and mother, what of them, my friend?" I asked, for the
promise of that clock "under certain conditions" was coming back to me.
"Haven't you heard, sir, poor papa and mama were lost in that awful
wreck at Castleton, two years ago."
And as I write, from the dial of "Scar Faced" Hopkins's clock "My Lady
of the Eyes" looks down at me from across the mystery of eternity. The
eyes do not change as once they did, or has age dimmed my sight and
imagination? Long I look into their peaceful depths thinking of their
story, and ask, "Dear Eyes, is it well with thee?"--and they seem to
answer, "It is well."