—­Yes, children believe plenty of queer things.  I suppose all of you have had the pocket-book fever when you were little?—­What do I mean?  Why, ripping up old pocket-books in the firm belief that bank-bills to an immense amount were hidden in them.—­So, too, you must all remember some splendid unfulfilled promise of somebody or other, which fed you with hopes perhaps for years, and which left a blank in your life which nothing has ever filled up.—­O.  T. quitted our household carrying with him the passionate regrets of the more youthful members.  He was an ingenious youngster; wrote wonderful copies, and carved the two initials given above with great skill on all available surfaces.  I thought, by the way, they were all gone; but the other day I found them on a certain door which I will show you some time.  How it surprised me to find them so near the ground!  I had thought the boy of no trivial dimensions.  Well, O. T., when he went, made a solemn promise to two of us.  I was to have a ship, and the other a marTIN-house (last syllable pronounced as in the word tin).  Neither ever came; but, oh, how many and many a time I have stolen to the corner,—­the cars pass close by it at this time,—­and looked up that long avenue, thinking that he must be coming now, almost sure, as I turned to look northward, that there he would be, trudging toward me, the ship in one hand and the marTIN-house in the other!

[You must not suppose that all I am going to say, as well as all I have said, was told to the whole company.  The young fellow whom they call John was in the yard, sitting on a barrel and smoking a cheroot, the fumes of which came in, not ungrateful, through the open window.  The divinity-student disappeared in the midst of our talk.  The poor relation in black bombazine, who looked and moved as if all her articulations were elbow-joints, had gone off to her chamber, after waiting with a look of soul-subduing decorum at the foot of the stairs until one of the male sort had passed her and ascended into the upper regions.  This is a famous point of etiquette in our boarding-house; in fact, between ourselves, they make such an awful fuss about it, that I, for one, had a great deal rather have them simple enough not to think of such matters at all.  Our landlady’s daughter said, the other evening, that she was going to “retire”; whereupon the young fellow called John took up a lamp and insisted on lighting her to the foot of the staircase.  Nothing would induce her to pass by him, until the schoolmistress, saying in good plain English that it was her bed-time, walked straight by them both, not seeming to trouble herself about either of them.