some six years back, at Brade Brothers & Co.'s office, I think. I was traveling for a Philadelphia house. The senior Brade introduced us, you remember; some business-chat followed, then you forced me home with you to a family tea, and a family time we had. Have you forgotten about the urn, and what I said about Werter's Charlotte, and the bread and butter, and that capital story you told of the large loaf. A hundred times since, I have laughed over it. At least you must recall my name—Ringman, John Ringman."
"Large loaf? Invited you to tea? Ringman? Ringman? Ring? Ring?"
"Ah sir," sadly smiling, don't ring the changes that way. I see you have a faithless memory, Mr. Roberts. But trust in the faithfulness of mine."
"Well, to tell the truth, in some things my memory aint of the very best," was the honest rejoinder. "But still," he perplexedly added, "still I—"
"Oh sir, suffice it that it is as I say. Doubt not that we are all well acquainted."
"But but I don't like this going dead against my own memory; I—"
"But didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some things this memory of yours is a little faithless? Now, those who have faithless memories, should they not have some little confidence in the less faithless memories of others?"
"But, of this friendly chat and tea, I have not the slightest—"
"I see, I see; quite erased from the tablet. Pray,
