"Her name is to be Thomasine," I repeated.
"It is an absurd name," Tom commented.
"That's as it may be," was all I would answer, "but that's what she's to be called. You're to kiss her, and"—
He looked at me with a sudden flush. He had never, I am sure, so much as touched his child with the tip of his finger, much less caressed her. The proposition took him completely by surprise, and evidently disconcerted him. I did not give him time to consider. I made my tone and manner as light as I could, and hurried on.
"You are to kiss her and say, 'I name you Thomasine.' I suppose that really you ought to say 'thee,' but that seems rather theatrical for us plain folk."
He hesitated a second, and then he bent over baby in my arms.
"I name you Thomasine," he said, and just brushed her forehead with his lips. Then he looked at me solemnly. "You will keep her?" he said.
"Yes," I promised.
So baby is named, and Tom must have felt that she belongs really to him, however he may shrink from her.