“No, I believe not, Mr. Masterson,” said Mary; “but then, sir, no more is it customary to delay a naming of them till they're old enough to be consulted.”
“Well, I reckon Mary's right about that, Baby, and perhaps I ought to have talked matters over with you; but I can tell you one thing, I never should have consented to Arabella—never in this world. I should say Arabella was a regular doll name, and not at all suited to a sturdy-limbed little girl like you.”
“But there are other beautiful names, papa—Edith and Ethel and Helen! I love Helen.” Then suddenly coming to a standstill and eagerly looking up to her father's face, she exclaimed: “Papa, if we hurried back perhaps the minister would un-un-christen me”—proud to have remembered the proper word and evidently comprehending that the rite was a binding one.
“No, I fear not,” laughed her father; “but take my word for it, you'll like Courage after a while; it's just the name for you.”
“Does it mean something, papa?”
“Yes, something fine. Why, when you grow up, Baby” (for the new name was quite too new for use), “you'll discover that there's nothing finer than courage.”
“Is courage something that people have? Have I got it?”
“Some people, dear, and I hope that you have it.”
“But why am I named it, if you are not sure, papa?”
“Because then perhaps the name may help you to get it; but the best reason of all is this, that the sight of you, darling, always puts new courage into me and although she did not in the least understand it, Baby felt somehow that that was a beautiful reason, and as her father lifted her up in his arms, gave him a tight little hug and was perfectly satisfied.