As we grow older we think more and more of old persons and of old things and places.  As to old persons, it seems as if we never know how much they have to tell until we are old ourselves and they have been gone twenty or thirty years.  Once in a while we come upon some survivor of his or her generation that we have overlooked, and feel as if we had recovered one of the lost books of Livy or fished up the golden candlestick from the ooze of the Tiber.  So it was the other day after my reminiscences of the old gambrel-roofed house and its visitors.  They found an echo in the recollections of one of the brightest and liveliest of my suburban friends, whose memory is exact about everything except her own age, which, there can be no doubt, she makes out a score or two of years more than it really is.  Still she was old enough to touch some lights—­and a shadow or two—­into the portraits I had drawn, which made me wish that she and not I had been the artist who sketched the pictures.  Among the lesser regrets that mingle with graver sorrows for the friends of an earlier generation we have lost, are our omissions to ask them so many questions they could have answered easily enough, and would have been pleased to be asked.  There!  I say to myself sometimes, in an absent mood, I must ask her about that.  But she of whom I am now thinking has long been beyond the reach of any earthly questioning, and I sigh to think how easily I could have learned some fact which I should have been happy to have transmitted with pious care to those who are to come after me.  How many times I have heard her quote the line about blessings brightening as they take their flight, and how true it proves in many little ways that one never thinks of until it is too late.

The Register of Deeds is not himself advanced in years.  But he borrows an air of antiquity from the ancient records which are stored in his sepulchral archives.  I love to go to his ossuary of dead transactions, as I would visit the catacombs of Rome or Paris.  It is like wandering up the Nile to stray among the shelves of his monumental folios.  Here stands a series of volumes, extending over a considerable number of years, all of which volumes are in his handwriting.  But as you go backward there is a break, and you come upon the writing of another person, who was getting old apparently, for it is beginning to be a little shaky, and then you know that you have gone back as far as the last days of his predecessor.  Thirty or forty years more carry you to the time when this incumbent began the duties of his office; his hand was steady then; and the next volume beyond it in date betrays the work of a still different writer.  All this interests me, but I do not see how it is going to interest my reader.  I do not feel very happy about the Register of Deeds.  What can I do with him?  Of what use is he going to be in my record of what I have seen and heard at the breakfast-table?  The fact of his being one of the boarders was not so important that I was obliged to speak of him, and I might just as well have drawn on my imagination and not allowed this dummy to take up the room which another guest might have profitably filled at our breakfast-table.