Mrs. Drury and Amethyst walked along silently for a few minutes, each apparently busy with her own thoughts. The former was thinking how best she could aid the poor old cripple she had just left, while her little daughter was pondering over the history of her name. They had reached a more open thoroughfare when Amethyst broke the silence.
"Amethyst is rather a funny name for a girl, don't you think, mumsie?"
Suddenly recalled from a mental calculation in which blankets and beef-tea played a prominent part, Mrs. Drury smiled down at her little daughter. "Do you think so, girlie?" was all she said.
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Amethyst, slowly. "Although the girls at the High School have nicknamed me 'Thistle,' they tease me about my proper name sometimes, and say I might as well have been called Sapphire or Topaz, or one of those long names which begin with a 'C.' I can't pronounce them properly, but you know the ones I mean, mumsie."
"Yes, dear, I know. You mean chrysolite and chalcedony and chrysoprasus," said her mother, with a smile; "but they are very different. Your father and I chose your name because of its meaning, for a special reason, as we have often told you, Amethyst. When we used to live in the East-end of London, where you were born, there was so much sin and sorrow all round us everywhere, caused by strong drink, that we resolved to call you Amethyst, so that you might always be a reminder to us of our promise not to have anything to do with it. And there was another reason, girlie," Mrs. Drury dropped her voice, and spoke softly. "Your father and I have always hoped and prayed, from your very babyhood, that when you were grown up you might become a worker in the noble army of men and women who are fighting, in God's strength, against this dreadful enemy of our beloved England."
"How could I, mother?" Amethyst asked wonderingly; she had never been told so much as this before.
"There are many ways, dear," replied her mother, "in which people can influence those around them in the cause of total abstinence. Some are wanted who can write books and articles; others who can speak in favour of it. But it is early days for us to plan your future, girlie; when you have left school far behind and are quite grown up, it will be easier to see how you can best live up to your name."
"I think I should like to be a speaker," said Amethyst meditatively.
"You are one now, I think, girlie," said Mrs. Drury, with a little laugh. "You know father says you are a regular chatterbox. Now, let us go into Wilson's and get some of those nice scones for tea, and then we must hurry home."
They had just emerged from the confectioner's, and were crossing the road, when Amethyst espied the two Franklyn girls coming towards them.