"'Cynthia Westwood'—is that your name?" said Mrs. Rumbold. "Dear me, I always thought that it was just 'Jane' or 'Jenny!' Wouldn't it be better to change it, and call her something more appropriate to her station?"
"Perhaps," said the injudicious Rector, "she may not like to be called by a name that does not belong to her."
He was looking at Jenny—or Cynthia, as she had just informed them that she was called—a transformed and greatly altered Cynthia under Mrs. Rumbold's management—Cynthia with hair cut short, hands and face scrupulously clean, a neat but ugly print frock, and a coarse holland pinafore—a perfectly subdued and uninteresting Cynthia—uninteresting save for the melancholy beauty of her great dark wistful eyes.
"What she likes has nothing to do with it," said Mrs. Rumbold, rather sharply. "Besides, she has another name—she told me so herself—'Cynthia Janet'—that's what she was christened, she tells me. She can be called 'Jane Wood' at Winstead."
The Rector looked up in mild surprise.
"Why not 'Jane Westwood,' my dear? 'Westwood' is her name."
"She had much better not be known as Westwood's daughter," said Mrs. Rumbold, with decision, quite heedless of Cynthia's presence. "It will be against her all her life. I have told Sister Louisa about her, and she asked me to let her be called 'Wood.' 'Jane Wood' is a nice sensible name."
"Well, as you please. You will not mind being called 'Jane,' will you, my dear?" said the Rector, mindful of the red flush that was creeping into the little pale cheeks.
He was a kindly old gentleman, in spite of his slow, absent-minded ways; and there was a very benevolent light in his eyes as he sat in his elbow-chair, newspaper on knee, spectacles on nose, and surveyed the child who had been brought to his study for inspection.
Mrs. Rumbold fairly lost her patience at the question.