The doctor turned half round on his heel.
"'Angels and ministers of grace'!" was his exclamation. "Most winged, gentle, and etherial of all the dwellers in, or on, anthills,—know that thy similitude is nothing meaner than a flower. You must take the name of one, Miss Faith—all the ladies do—what will you be?"
"What will you be?" Mr. Linden repeated,—"Mignonette?—that is even below the level of some of your anthills."
"If you please,"—she said.
"Or one of your Rhododendrons?" said the doctor—"that is better; for you have the art—or the nature, indeed,—of representing all the tints of the family by turns—except the unlovely ones. Be a Rhodora!"
"No"—said Faith—"I am not like that—nor like the other, but I will be the other."
"Mignonette"—said the doctor. "Well, what shall we call him? what is he like?"
"I think," said Faith, looking down very gravely, not with the flashing eye with which she would have said it another time,—"he is most like a midge."
The little laugh which answered her, the way in which Mr. Linden bent down and said, "How do you know, Miss Faith?" were slightly mystifying to Dr. Harrison.
"I don't know,"—she said smiling; and the doctor with one or two looks of very ungratified curiosity left them and returned to his post.