At every sound in the hall, every female neck is craned towards the door. Somebody or something is expected.
“Mrs. Carter,” said Mrs. Poythress, “what name has Alice selected for the little man?”
“Oh, yes! what is to be his name?” echoed every lady in the room.
Thereupon, Mrs. Carter, being constitutionally incapable of laughing, began to shake.
At this eccentric behavior on the part of the young grandmother, curiosity rose to fever heat; but the more they plied her with questions, the more she could not answer. Seeing her incapable of speech, her grave and silent husband came to the rescue, and explained that what amused Mrs. Carter was that she did not know what their grandchild was to be called. It appeared that Alice, as a reward for his getting well of his wound, had allowed Charley the privilege of naming their son. He had accepted the responsibility,—but no mortal, not even his wife, had been able to make him say what the name was to be.
This statement sent the curiosity of the audience up to the boiling point. Did you ever!
Mrs. Rolfe interrogated Mr. Rolfe with her impressive eyes.
“Such a fancy would never have occurred to me, I’m sure,” said that man of peace.
“Al-i-ce!” called Mrs. Carter, from the foot of the stairs.
“We are coming, mother,” answered a cheery voice from the ball above; and Alice, giving two or three final little jerks at the ends of certain ribbons and bits of lace that adorned her boy (he was asleep on his nurse’s shoulder), stood aside to let that dignitary pass down-stairs, at the head of the procession.