"Very good, I'm glad to say."
They talked for a time, and all were cheered to find themselves so agreeable.
"I think I can slightly recall your people, Mr. Baptiste," her mother remarked, thoughtfully. "My husband, Dr. McCarthy," she said, giving him an honorary term, "pastored the church in the town near where you were born, many years ago."
"I do say," he echoed non-commitally.
"Do you recall it?" she asked.
He appeared to be thinking.... He hardly knew what to say, then, after some deliberation he brightened and said: "I think I do. I was very young then, but I think I do recall your husband...."
"Your name—the name of your family has always remained in my mind," said she then, reflectively.
"Indeed. It is a rather peculiar name."
"It is so, I should say," she cried. "If it is quite fair, may I ask where or how your father came by such a name?"
"Oh, it is very simple. My father, of course, was born a slave like most—almost all Negroes previous to the war—and took the name from his master who I suppose was of French descent."