Maria returned home a week from that day. She travelled alone from Boston, and her father met her in New York. He looked strange to her. He was jubilant, and yet the marks of anxiety were deep. He seemed very glad to see Maria, and talked to her about her little sister in an odd, hesitating way.
“Her name is Evelyn,” said Harry.
Maria said nothing. She and her father were crossing the city to the ferry in a cab.
“Don't you think that is a pretty name, dear?” asked Harry, with a queer, apologetic wistfulness.
“No, father, I think it is a very silly name,” replied Maria.
“Why, your mother and I thought it a very pretty name, dear.”
“I always thought it was the silliest name in the world,” said Maria, firmly. However, she sat close to her father, and realized that it was something to have him to herself without Her, while crossing the city. “I don't know as I think Evelyn is such a very silly name, father,” she said, presently, just before they reached the ferry.
Harry bent down and kissed her. “Father's own little girl,” he said.
Maria felt that she had been magnanimous, for she had in reality never liked Evelyn, and would not have named a doll that.
“You will be a great deal happier with a little sister. It will turn out for the best,” said Harry, as the cab stopped. Harry always put a colon of optimism to all his happenings of life.