“You shall have the naming of our little girl—remember Oak Valley! yes, indeed I do; I can safely trust her name to you—my dear husband, you can have no objection; you will give your consent, I hope.”
“Certainly,” said poor Mr. Webb, his mind misgiving him about the name, as on looking at Mr. Banks, he saw his features announcing a new burst of merriment—“I have no objection to a scripture name, and I would even prefer Winnifred,”—casting a timid glance at the old humourist,—“to many that I know.”
“Well, you both consent then, and will not retract—give me your word of honour to let me name the child as I like, in case I settle a thousand dollars a year upon her.” Mrs. Webb eagerly gave her word, and her husband, after again expressing his entire willingness, once more hinted that a plain scripture name was quite as agreeable to him now, as any other.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Banks, “the thing is settled. I will now take my leave and go to my lodgings. The deed for Oak Valley shall be made out immediately, as shall the settlement on our little dolly—but, Winny,” said he, casting a sly look at Mr. Webb—“you had better change your mind and live in the city; your going so far off from me will drive me back to Jamaica—what, you are determined? well, I must submit; but remember, I must name dolly.” Saying this, he walked nimbly out of the house, apparently unwilling to trust himself a minute longer in their sight.
In the course of the next day the deeds were sent to them by which the estate of Oak Valley was secured to them, as was likewise a settlement of one thousand dollars a year, which sum was for the use of the parents until the child came of age. There was a letter accompanying the papers, saying that he would tell them his mind concerning the name of the child, meantime he had sent them each a present, which he hoped would do away all past offences.
“Generous man,” said the enraptured Mrs. Webb, “I have no doubt but that these two parcels, so carefully sealed, contain bank notes; here, my dear, this one is directed to you—let him laugh, I only wish I may be able to sleep this night under such a load of kindness. That farm of Oak Valley, my dear, is a very excellent one—such pasturage, such fine springs on it”—and while she was regaling herself with a recollection of its many beauties and comforts, she was at the same time opening her little packet, which was enveloped in fold after fold of paper, each one carefully sealed. Mr. Webb was, however, in such a pleasing reverie, that her words fell on his ear without his having any very distinct notion of what she was saying, further than that they were harmonizing with his feelings. As to his own packet, it remained untouched in his hand.
“And then there is such a pretty river, navigable too for small craft, running at the very foot of the farm; you can take——what a curious conceit this is of Uncle Banks, what trouble he has given himself and me to, in enclosing this money, for such I have no doubt it is, in so many covers; I am afraid to tear them loose at once, lest I may tear the notes—my dear, why do you not begin to open yours? I am sorry my poor uncle does not like the country, for all things considered we might bear with his fooleries—there, thank goodness, I have opened the last pa”——. But what was her chagrin on finding that it contained the old story book, “There was a little woman, as I’ve heard tell.”
Casting her quick eye towards her husband, she saw that his “eye was in fine frenzy rolling,” and that he had been long past attending either to her packet or his own; so, wishing to spare him the mortification which she had just encountered, she gently took the unopened parcel from his unresisting hand, and went quietly out of the room. She opened this second parcel with much less ceremony than she did her own, cutting and tearing through the numerous folds, and just as she expected, she saw a book of the same size as the other, called, “There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid.”
Indignation was the first effect, as she threw the books across the room, but surprise and pleasure soon succeeded, for as the books dashed against the wall, sundry bank notes fell out and were scattered on the floor. On examination she found that the eccentric humourist had placed a one hundred dollar bank note between every two leaves of each book.
“I know exactly, my dear Hassy,” said the now delighted wife, as she rushed into the room, “I know what uncle Banks means by these handsome presents—here is a thousand dollars for you and the same sum for me. Your money is to purchase stock for the farm, and mine is to buy furniture; was there ever any one so generous!—laugh? who cares for his laughter and his odd ways, when he atones for them in such a handsome manner as this? Here, my dear, put the money carefully away, while I pick up these foolish bits of paper.”