"No, I learned it when I was a boy: 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.' Is that it?"
"Yes, that's it: 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.' I shan't forget next time; I'll think about your name, Jerome, papa; that is a good name, but I don't see how it is better than great riches, do you?"
The handkerchief was nervously at his lips again, and the child waited for him to speak.
"Jerrie, I have no money to leave you, it will all be gone by the time you and Nurse are safe at Aunt Prue's. Everything you have will come from her; you must always thank her very much for doing so much for you, and thank Uncle John and be very obedient to him."
"Will he make me do what I don't want to?" she asked, her lips pouting and her eyes moistening.
"Not unless it is best, and now you must promise me never to disobey him or Aunt Prue. Promise, Jerrie."
But Jerrie did not like to promise. She moved her feet uneasily, she scratched on the arm of his chair with a pin that she had picked up on the floor of the veranda; she would not lift her eyes nor speak. She did not love to be obedient; she loved to be queen in her own little realm of Self.
"Papa is dying—he will soon go away, and his little daughter will not promise the last thing he asks of her?"
Instantly, in a flood of penitent tears, her arms were flung about his neck and she was promising over and over, "I will, I will," and sobbing on his shoulder.
He suffered the embrace for a few moments and then pushed her gently aside.