It was a happy day for him when, propped against his breast and gently held by his warm, strong arm, the twin boys were first brought to be laid upon her lap. Two staring, dark-faced creatures, with restless fists and feet, they were alike in every least feature of their grotesque animality. Phebe placed a hand under the head of each, and looked at them for a long time in silence.
“Why is this?” she said, at last, taking hold of a narrow pink ribbon, which was tied around the wrist of one.
“He's the oldest, sure,” the nurse answered. “Only by fifteen minutes or so, but it generally makes a difference when twins come to be named; and you may see with your own eyes that there's no telling of 'em apart otherways.”
“Take off the ribbon, then,” said Phebe quietly; “I know them.”
“Why, ma'am, it's always done, where they're so like! And I'll never be able to tell which is which; for they sleep and wake and feed by the same clock. And you might mistake, after all, in giving 'em names—”
“There is no oldest or youngest, John; they are two and yet one: this is mine, and this is yours.”
“I see no difference at all, Phebe,” said John; “and how can we divide them?”
“We will not divide,” she answered; “I only meant it as a sign.”
She smiled, for the first time in many days. He was glad of heart, but did not understand her. “What shall we call them?” he asked. “Elias and Reuben, after our fathers?”
“No, John; their names must be David and Jonathan.”