"Well—George Alcott and I—do you know George?—no great loss—we were kept one Sunday in that respectable little town by a freshet. Whether it was one of those rains that bring down more things from the sky than water, I don't know,—George declared it was. If it wasn't, we made discoveries."
"If you and George both used your eyes, there must have been discoveries," said Mr. Linden. "Did you take notice how green the grass looked after the rain? and that when the clouds were blown away the sun shone?"
"You're not all theology yet!" said Mr. Motley. "Be quiet—can't you? I'm not talking to you. We were sauntering down this same road, doctor—after church,—falling in with the people, so that we could see them and be taken for churchgoers. But there wasn't much to see.—Then George declared that here was the place where Linden had secluded himself for nobody knows what,—then we fell naturally into lamenting the waste of such fine material, and conned over various particulars of his former life and prospects—the great promise of past years, the present melancholy mania to make money and be useful. Upon which points George and I fought as usual. Then we grew tired of the subject and of the mud—turned short about—and beheld—what do you suppose, doctor?"
"How far you had come for nothing?"
"Imagine," said Mr. Motley, taking out a fresh cigar and a match and proceeding to put them to their respective uses,—"Imagine the vision that appeared to Balaam's ass—and how the ass felt."
"Nay, that we cannot do," said Mr. Linden. "You tax us too far."
"In both requisitions—" added the doctor.
"There stood," said Mr. Motley, removing his cigar and waving it gracefully in one hand. "There stood close behind us on the mud—she could not have been in it—an immortal creature, in mortal merino! We—transfixed, mute—stepped aside right and left to let her pass,—I believe George had presence of mind enough to take off his hat; and she—'severe in youthful beauty', glorious in youthful blushes—walked on, looking full at us as she went. But such a look! and from such eyes!—fabulous eyes, doctor, upon my honour. Then we saw that the merino was only a disguise. Imagine a search warrant wrapped up in moonbeams—imagine the blending of the softest sunset reflection with a keen lightning flash,—and after all you have only words—not those eyes. Linden!—seems to me your imagination serves you better here,—your own eyes are worth looking at!"
"It has had more help from you," Mr. Linden said, controlling the involuntary unbent play of eye and lip with which he had heard the description.
"Well, George raved about them for a month," Mr. Motley went on, "and staid in Pattaquasset a whole week to see them again—which he didn't; so he made up his mind that they had escaped in the train of events—or of ears, and now seeks them through the world. Some day he will meet them in the possession of Mrs. Somebody—and then hang himself." And Mr. Motley puffed out clouds of smoke thereupon.