“I—I beg your pardon, papa.”
“Humph! Granted. Now, what’s to be done first? The boy is clean?”
“Oh yes.”
“Can’t improve him then, that way; but I want as soon as possible to get rid of that nasty, pasty, low-class pallor. One does not see it in poor people’s children, as a rule, while these Union little ones always look sickly to me. You must feed him up, Helen.”
“I have begun, papa,” she said, smiling.
“Humph! Yes. Clothes. Yes; we must have some clothes, and—oh, by the way, I had forgotten. Here, my boy.”
The lad jumped up with alacrity, and came to the doctor’s side boldly—looking keenly from one to the other.
“What did you say your name was!”
“Bed—Obed Coleby.”
“Hah!” cried the doctor; “then we’ll do away with that at once. Now, what shall we call you!”