“You need not write me oftener than once a year,” said Ratcliff.
“Not if she were dangerously ill?”
“No; not even then. You could take better care of her than I; and all my interest in her is in futuro.”
“I think I understand, sir,” said Mrs. Gentry; “and I will at once make a note of what you say.”
“Here is payment for the first half-year in advance,” said Ratcliff.
“Thank you, sir,” returned the lady, quite overwhelmed at the great planter’s munificence. “Shall I write you a receipt?”
“It is superfluous, madam.”
All this while the child, with a seriousness strangely at variance with her infantile appearance, sat on the floor, looking intently first at the woman, then at the man, and evidently striving to understand what they were saying. Ratcliff now took his leave; but Mrs. Gentry called him back before he had reached the door.
“Excuse me, sir, there is something I wished to ask you? What was it? Oh! By what name shall we call the child?”
“Upon my word,” said Ratcliff, “I have forgotten the name the auctioneer gave her. No matter! Call her anything you please.”