WHAT NAME?

Richling in Dr. Sevier’s library, one evening in early May, gave him great amusement by an account of the Ristofalo-Riley wedding. He had attended it only the night before. The Doctor had received an invitation, but had pleaded previous engagements.

“But I am glad you went,” he said to Richling; “however, go on with your account.”

“Oh! I was glad to go. And I’m certainly glad I went.”

Richling proceeded with the recital. The Doctor smiled. It was very droll,—the description of persons and costumes. Richling was quite another than his usual restrained self this evening. Oddly enough, too, for this was but his second visit; the confinement of his work was almost like an imprisonment, it was so constant. The Doctor had never seen him in just such a glow. He even mimicked the brogue of two or three Irish gentlemen, and the soft, outlandish swing in the English of one or two Sicilians. He did it all so well that, when he gave an instance of some of the broad Hibernian repartee he had heard, the Doctor actually laughed audibly. One of his young-lady cousins on some pretext opened a door, and stole a glance within to see what could have produced a thing so extraordinary.

“Come in, Laura; come in! Tell Bess to come in.”

The Doctor introduced Richling with due ceremony Richling could not, of course, after this accession of numbers, go on being funny. The mistake was trivial, but all saw it. Still the meeting was pleasant. The girls were very intelligent and vivacious. Richling found a certain refreshment in their graceful manners, like what we sometimes feel in catching the scent of some long-forgotten perfume. They had not been told all his history, but had heard enough to make them curious to see and speak to him. They were evidently pleased with him, and Dr. Sevier, observing this, betrayed an air that was much like triumph. But after a while they went as they had come.

“Doctor,” said Richling, smiling until Dr. Sevier wondered silently what possessed the fellow, “excuse me for bringing this here. But I find it so impossible to get to your office”—He moved nearer the Doctor’s table and put his hand into his bosom.

“What’s that?” asked the Doctor, frowning heavily. Richling smiled still broader than before.

“This is a statement,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of the various loans you have made me, with interest to date.”

“Yes?” said the Doctor, frigidly.

“And here,” persisted the happy man, straightening out a leg as he had done the first time they ever met, and drawing a roll of notes from his pocket, “is the total amount.”

“Yes?” The Doctor regarded them with cold contempt. “That’s all very pleasant for you, I suppose, Richling,—shows you’re the right kind of man, I suppose, and so on. I know that already, however. Now just put all that back into your pocket; the sight of it isn’t pleasant. You certainly don’t imagine I’m going to take it, do you?”

“You promised to take it when you lent it.”

“Humph! Well, I didn’t say when.”

“As soon as I could pay it,” said Richling.

“I don’t remember,” replied the Doctor, picking up a newspaper. “I release myself from that promise.”

“I don’t release you,” persisted Richling; “neither does Mary.”

The Doctor was quiet awhile before he answered. He crossed his knees, a moment after folded his arms, and presently said:—

“Foolish pride, Richling.”

“We know that,” replied Richling; “we don’t deny that that feeling creeps in. But we’d never do anything that’s right if we waited for an unmixed motive, would we?”

“Then you think my motive—in refusing it—is mixed, probably.”

“Ho-o-oh!” laughed Richling. The gladness within him would break through. “Why, Doctor, nothing could be more different. It doesn’t seem to me as though you ever had a mixed motive.”

The Doctor did not answer. He seemed to think the same thing.

“We know very well, Doctor, that if we should accept this kindness we might do it in a spirit of proper and commendable—a—humble-mindedness. But it isn’t mere pride that makes us insist.”

“No?” asked the Doctor, cruelly. “What is it else?”

“Why, I hardly know what to call it, except that it’s a conviction that—well, that to pay is best; that it’s the nearest to justice we can get, and that”—he spoke faster—“that it’s simply duty to choose justice when we can and mercy when we must. There, I’ve hit it out!” He laughed again. “Don’t you see, Doctor? Justice when we may—mercy when we must! It’s your own principles!”

The Doctor looked straight at the mantel-piece as he asked:—

“Where did you get that idea?”

“I don’t know; partly from nowhere, and”—

“Partly from Mary,” interrupted the Doctor. He put out his long white palm. “It’s all right. Give me the money.” Richling counted it into his hand. He rolled it up and stuffed it into his portemonnaie.

“You like to part with your hard earnings, do you, Richling?”

“Earnings can’t be hard,” was the reply; “it’s borrowings that are hard.”

The Doctor assented.

“And, of course,” said Richling, “I enjoy paying old debts.” He stood and leaned his head in his hand with his elbow on the mantel. “But, even aside from that, I’m happy.”

“I see you are!” remarked the physician, emphatically, catching the arms of his chair and drawing his feet closer in. “You’ve been smiling worse than a boy with a love-letter.”

“I’ve been hoping you’d ask me what’s the matter.”

“Well, then, Richling, what is the matter?”

“Mary has a daughter.”

“What!” cried the Doctor, springing up with a radiant face, and grasping Richling’s hand in both his own.

Richling laughed aloud, nodded, laughed again, and gave either eye a quick, energetic wipe with all his fingers.

“Doctor,” he said, as the physician sank back into his chair, “we want to name”—he hesitated, stood on one foot and leaned again against the shelf—“we want to call her by the name of—if we may”—

The Doctor looked up as if with alarm, and John said, timidly,—“Alice!”

Dr. Sevier’s eyes—what was the matter? His mouth quivered. He nodded and whispered huskily:—

“All right.”

After a long pause Richling expressed the opinion that he had better be going, and the Doctor did not indicate any difference of conviction. At the door the Doctor asked:—

“If the fever should break out this summer, Richling, will you go away?”

“No.”