"
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."
Before I ever went to Hopkins' house, he had told her all about me, and
when he introduced us, he said:
"Madeline, this is the friend who says your picture talked to him."
I bowed low to the lady and tried to put myself and her at ease.
"Mrs. Hopkins, I'm afraid your husband is poking fun at me, and thinks
my liver is out of order, but, really, I did imagine I saw changing
expression in your eyes in that picture--in fact, I named you 'My Lady
of the Eyes.'"
She laughed--with her eyes--held out her hands and made me welcome.
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