She turned her eyes again upon her daughter. Marvel, feeling the long look, glanced up.
"Are you comfy? Is there anything more you want, mother?" the girl inquired.
Clarissa shook her head. "No, nothing. Really, child, you are an excellent nurse. Quite a--quite a Marvel! Were you born so? Where did you get it? Not from Paul or me!"
Marvel smiled faintly to herself.
"Where did I get that name?" she parried. "I have often wondered about that. Father could n't, or would n't, tell me."
{193}
The slow, difficult color came to Clarissa's cheeks. How many years since she had recalled the naming of her daughter!
"There is no secret about it," she said. "When the nurse first laid you on my arm, I saw what seemed to me such a wonder-child that I said, Every baby in the world ought to be named Marvel. Mine shall be.-- That's all. It was just a fancy. Your father wanted to name you Clarissa Josephine. Where did those daffodils come from? Did the Herr Professor send them?"
Marvel nodded carelessly. This was so common a matter as to be undeserving of comment.
Clarissa resumed her train of thought. What tact the girl had shown! She had slipped into her mother's life easily. At the beginning she had taken her little stand, assumed {194} her pose. "I am not a believer in your panaceas," her manner always, and her lips once or twice, had said, "but nothing human is alien to me. Pray shatter society to bits and remould it nearer to the heart's desire--if you can."