“People hardly ever do get a name that fits,” remarked Max sagely; “Mr. Carpenter will be a shoemaker, like as not, or a merchant, and Mr. Shoemaker a hotel keeper, and so on.”
“Yes, that is rather apt to be the case,” assented his father, “but occasionally a man does follow the trade that fits his name; for instance, I used to know a Mr. Cobbler who made, and doubtless mended, shoes, too.”
“Max, don’t you remember the Browns that lived next door to Aunt Beulah?” asked Lulu.
“Yes; they were all very fair, and had light hair and eyes. And Tom White, who went to the same school I did, was dark-complexioned and had eyes as black as sloes.”
“Papa,” asked Lulu, “will the horses and ponies be here soon? Will we take our ride soon as we are done eating?”
“No, not quite; ‘after dinner rest awhile,’ is the rule, don’t you know? You may do that for fully half an hour while I write to your mamma.”
“Oh, mayn’t I write too? I’m not tired.”
“Certainly, if you wish to; you and Max are both at liberty to amuse yourselves during the interval before our ride. Well, what is it, daughter?” noticing a slight expression of trouble and perplexity in her speaking countenance.
“Only that sometimes I forget how to spell a word, papa, and what am I to do about it? At home you always tell me to look in the dictionary, but we haven’t any here.”
“How will your father answer for one?” he asked, with sportive look and tone.