"I am sorry," he said, with tears of laughter still in his eyes; "I thought you were playing a joke on us."
I tried to look pleasant.
"I cannot at all account for myself," I said, "or for you; I suppose a long time has elapsed since I went to sleep; so long that I hardly remember where it was, though I think it was in Boston—in my bachelor quarters there."
They both looked puzzled and concerned.
"And what is your name?" asked the girl.
"Henry T. Joyce," answered I.
I could see that my very name amused them though they tried to conceal it.
"And yours?" asked I of the girl.
"Lydia—Lydia second, or more correctly, Lydia of Lydia."
"That means," said the boy, "that her mother's name was Lydia; and so I call myself Cleon of Lydia, because, my mother's name was Lydia. She," he added, pointing to the girl, "is my sister."