greatest pleasure of my life.  Year by year you two will grow older; year by year you will more nearly approach my own age, and become, according to the ordinary opinion of the world, more suitable companions for me.  Then you will reach my age.  We shall be three gray-haired friends.  Then will come the saddening time, the mournful days.  You two will grow older and older, and I shall remain where I am—­always fifty-three.  Then you will grow to be elderly—­elderly people; at last, aged people.  If you live long enough I shall look up to you as I would to my parents.”

This was a state of things I had never contemplated.  I could scarcely appreciate it.

“Of course,” he continued, “I wish you both to live long; but don’t you see how it affects me?  But enough of that.  Here comes Mrs. Crowder, and with her all subjects must be pleasant ones.”

“I think thee must buy some short cigars,” she said, just putting her head inside the door, “to smoke after dinner.  If large ones are necessary, they can be smoked after I go to bed.  I am getting very impatient; for now that Mr. Randolph is here, I believe that thee is going to be unusually interesting.”

We arose immediately, and joined Mrs. Crowder in the library.

This lady’s use of the plain speech customary with Quakers was very pleasant to me.  I had had but little acquaintance with it, and at first its independence of grammatical rules struck upon me unpleasantly; but I soon began to enjoy Mrs. Crowder’s speech, when she was addressing her husband, much more than I did the remarks she made to me, the latter being always couched in the most correct English.  There was a sweetness about her “thee” which had the quality of gentle music; and when she used the word “thy” it was pronounced so much like “thee” that I could scarcely perceive the difference.  To her husband and child she always used the Quaker speech of the present day; and as I did not like being set aside in this way, I said to her that I hoped there was no rule of the Society of Friends which would compel her to make a change in her form of speech when she addressed me.  “If thee likes,” she said, with a smile, “thee is welcome to all the plain speech thee wants.”  And after that, when she spoke to me, she did not turn me out among the world’s people.

“Now, you know,” said Mr. Crowder, “that I’m not going to play the part of an historian.  That sort of discourse would bore me, and it would bore you.  If there is any kind of thing that you would like to hear about, all you have to do is to ask me; and if you don’t care to do this, I will tell you whatever comes up in my memory, without any regard to chronology or geography, just as I talked to you before.  If I were to begin at the beginning and go straight along, even if I skipped ever so much, the story would—­it would be a great deal too long.”

I am sure that Mrs. Crowder and I both felt what he did not wish to say—­that we were not likely to live to hear it all.