“You were John Whitney then,” put in Mrs. Pepper, slyly. “That's the reason I never knew when they were all talking of Mason Whitney.”
“John Whitney I was,” said Mr. Whitney, laughing, “or rather, Johnny and Jack. But Grandmother Mason, when I grew older, wanted me called by my middle name to please grandfather. But to go back—when I was a little shaver, about as big as Percy here—”
“Oh, papa!” began Percy, deprecatingly. To be called “a little shaver” before all the others!
“He means, dearie,” said his mamma, reassuringly, “when he was a boy like you. Now hear what papa is going to say.”
“Well, I was sent up into Vermont to stay at the old place. There was a little girl there; a bright, black-eyed little girl. She was my cousin, and her name was Mary Bartlett.”
“Who's Mary Bartlett?” asked Joel, interrupting.
“There she is, sir,” said Mr. Whitney, pointing to Mrs. Pepper, who was laughing and crying together.
“Where?” said Joel, utterly bewildered. “I don't see any Mary Bartlett. What does he mean, Polly?”
“I don't know,” said Polly. “Wait, Joey,” she whispered, “he's going to tell us all about it.”
“Well, this little cousin and I went to the district school, and had many good times together. And then my parents sent for me, and I went to Germany to school; and when I came back I lost sight of her. All I could find out was that she had married an Englishman by the name of Pepper.”