“How old is she?” asked the master abruptly.
“Goin' on twelve, but,”—and Mrs. Hoover again hesitated.
“Why, two of my scholars, the Bromly girls, are over fourteen,” said the master, “and you know how they are dressed;” but here he hesitated in his turn. It had just occurred to him that the little waif was from the extreme South, and the precocious maturity of the mixed races there was well known. He even remembered, to his alarm, to have seen brides of twelve and mothers of fourteen among the native villagers. This might also account for the suggestion of equality in her manner, and even for a slight coquettishness which he thought he had noticed in her when he had addressed her playfully as a muchacha. “I should dress her in something Spanish,” he said hurriedly, “something white, you know, with plenty of flounces and a little black lace, or a black silk skirt and a lace scarf, you know. She'll be all right if you don't make her look like a servant or a dependent,” he added, with a show of confidence he was far from feeling. “But you haven't told me her name,” he concluded.
“As we're reckonin' to adopt her,” said Mrs. Hoover gravely, “you'll give her ours.”
“But I can't call her 'Miss Hoover,'” suggested the master; “what's her first name?”
“We was thinkin' o' 'Serafina Ann,'” said Mrs. Hoover with more gravity.
“But what is her name?” persisted the master.
“Well,” returned Mrs. Hoover, with a troubled look, “me and Hiram consider it's a heathenish sort of name for a young gal, but you'll find it in my brother's letter.” She took a letter from under the lid of a large Bible on the table and pointed to a passage in it.
“The child was christened 'Concepcion,'” read the master. “Why, that's one of the Marys!”
“The which?” asked Mrs. Hoover severely.