call her my own mother, because, you know, I do not remember,” etc., etc., etc.; till they came to the candied orange at the end of the feast,—­when Dennis, rather confused, thought he must say something, and tried No. 4,—­“I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room,”—­which he never should have said but at a public meeting.  But Mrs. Jeffries, who never listens expecting to understand, caught him up instantly with, “Well, I’m sure my husband returns the compliment; he always agrees with you,—­though we do worship with the Methodists;—­but you know, Mr. Ingham,” etc., etc., etc., till the move was made up-stairs;—­and as Dennis led her through the hall, he was scarcely understood by any but Polly, as he said, “There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time.”

His great resource the rest of the evening was, standing in the library, carrying on animated conversations with one and another in much the same way.  Polly had initiated him in the mysteries of a discovery of mine, that it is not necessary to finish your sentences in a crowd, but by a sort of mumble, omitting sibilants and dentals.  This, indeed, if your words fail you, answers even in public extempore speech,—­but better where other talking is going on.  Thus,—­“We missed you at the Natural History Society, Ingham.”  Ingham replies,—­“I am very gligloglum, that is, that you were mmmmm.”  By gradually dropping the voice, the interlocutor is compelled to supply the answer.  “Mrs. Ingham, I hope your friend Augusta is better.”  Augusta has not been ill.  Polly cannot think of explaining, however, and answers,—­“Thank you, Ma’am; she is very rearason wewahwewoh,” in lower and lower tones.  And Mrs. Throckmorton, who forgot the subject of which she spoke, as soon as she asked the question, is quite satisfied.  Dennis could see into the card-room, and came to Polly to ask if he might not go and play all-fours.  But, of course, she sternly refused.  At midnight they came home delighted,—­Polly, as I said, wild to tell me the story of victory; only both the pretty Walton girls said,—­“Cousin Frederic, you did not come near me all the evening.”

We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience, though his real name was Frederic Ingham, as I have explained.  When the election-day came round, however, I found that by some accident there was only one Frederic Ingham’s name on the voting-list; and, as I was quite busy that day in writing some foreign letters to Halle, I thought I would forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay quietly at home, telling Dennis that he might use the record on the voting-list and vote.  I gave him a ticket, which I told him he might use, if he liked to.  That was that very sharp election in Maine which the readers of the “Atlantic” so well remember, and it had been intimated in public that the ministers would do well not to appear at the polls.  Of