Very soon he was called into the office proper and stood before the superintendent, a tall, grave man with unhealthy white skin and veiny hands. With a brief “Good-by, Joshua,” John Cole left his son; and then the superintendent sat looking the boy over in a disinterested though not antagonistic manner.
“Cole,” he mused finally, looking at the papers before him on his desk. “John Cole is your father’s name? It is strangely familiar. Do you know your mother’s maiden name”—he glanced at the paper again—“Joshua?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Joshua. “It was Florence.”
“Florence! Are you positive?”
“Yes, sir—I know that was her name.”
“Impossible! What is her first name?”
“Blanche,” said the boy.
“Blanche Cole. I suspected it the moment I saw your face, but it didn’t occur to me while your father was here. You have the face of a Florence. So your mother was a Florence. One of the Florences, of course.”
“Yes, sir. There’s lots of Florences in this state. They come over with Lord Calvert to Maryland.”
“Of course—of course. The irony of fate! Do you know, Joshua, that your mother’s father—your grandfather, Peter D. Florence—was the founder of this institution?”