"He does it just like you, Gordon," I repeated. "Nobody need ever tell me there's nothing in heredity. Isn't it wonderful?"
"It's mysterious," said Gordon, fascinated as he watched the little cleric; "we'll have to call him some name suitable for a minister."
"We'll call him Gordon," I said decisively—"that's a good Presbyterian name. I called him that this morning, all alone, and he looked up and cooed like as if he understood."
"We'll call him Harold, for your father, if you like," my husband proposed magnanimously.
"No, no," I said, "his name shall be Gordon. But we'll call it—I mean—we'll give mother's name to her—if he ever has a little sister."
"Mercy!" said Gordon, drawing his breath in fast.
"I always think just one's so lonely," I explained, my eyes fastened on the isolated posterity beside me. "I was just one—the only one in our family, you know."
"The only one in the world—for me," said Gordon, and he kissed me. "Look, your son's trying to sneeze: isn't it wonderful how soon they pick things up?"
"Our son, dear," I corrected reproachfully, after I had helped baby through.
Gordon laughed. "We're a pair of idiots," he said. "We'll have to straighten up, Helen, or we'll spoil the youngster. I can see you're going to idolize him already."