"Sure she spoke?" asked Hopkins. "How did you know it was my wife anyway?"
"Because it was the same face that is pictured on your clock, and some one in the crowd said it was Mrs. Hopkins. You know Hop., I ran by that clock for a few weeks, and I noticed the eyes."
"Anything queer about 'em?" This was a challenge.
"Yes, I think there is. In the first place, I know you will understand me when I say they are handsome eyes, and I'm free to confess that they had a queer influence on me, I imagined they changed and expressed things and—"
"Talked, eh."
"Well, yes." Then I told Hopkins the influence the "Eyes" had on me.
He listened intently, watching me; when I had finished, he came over, reached out his hand and said:
"Shake, friend, you're a damned good fellow."
I thought Hopkins had been drinking—or looking at "Her Eyes." He pulled up a chair and lit a cigar.
"John," said he, "it isn't every man that can understand what my wife says. Only kindred spirits can read the language of the eyes. She hasn't spoken an audible word in ten years, but she talks with her eyes, even her picture talks. We, rather she, is a mystery here; people believe all kinds of things about her and us; but we don't care. I want you to come up to the house some evening and know her better. We'll be three chums, I know it, but don't ask questions; you will know things later on."