“Of course he was.  It was a perfectly plain case. 
I always said so.”

“Why, no you didn’t!—­at least that summer.”

“Oh, no, not that summer.  No, you are perfectly right about that.  It was the following winter that I said it.”

“Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least to blame —­it was all her father’s fault—­at least his and old Darley’s.”

It was necessary to say something—­so I said: 

“I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing.”

“So he was, but then they always had a great affection for him, although he had so many eccentricities.  You remember that when the weather was the least cold, he would try to come into the house.”

I was rather afraid to proceed.  Evidently Darley was not a man—­he must be some other kind of animal—­possibly a dog, maybe an elephant.  However, tails are common to all animals, so I ventured to say: 

“And what a tail he had!”

“One!  He had a thousand!”

This was bewildering.  I did not quite know what to say, so I only said: 

“Yes, he was rather well fixed in the matter of tails.”

“For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,” said she.

It was getting pretty sultry for me.  I said to myself, “Is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for me to speak?  If she does, the conversation is blocked.  A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more or less preparation.  As to diving rashly into such a vast subject—­”

But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts by saying: 

“Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was simply no end to them if anybody would listen.  His own quarters were comfortable enough, but when the weather was cold, the family were sure to have his company—­nothing could keep him out of the house.  But they always bore it kindly because he had saved Tom’s life, years before.  You remember Tom?

“Oh, perfectly.  Fine fellow he was, too.”

“Yes he was.  And what a pretty little thing his child was!”

“You may well say that.  I never saw a prettier child.”

“I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play with it.”

“So did I.”

“You named it.  What was that name?  I can’t call it to mind.”

It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty thin, here.  I would have given something to know what the child’s was.  However, I had the good luck to think of a name that would fit either sex—­so I brought it out: 

“I named it Frances.”

“From a relative, I suppose?  But you named the one that died, too—­one that I never saw.  What did you call that one?”

I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name for it and trust to luck.  Therefore I said: