“No, ma’am; Molly is going to get me some.”
“Won’t you take your breakfast in here with me? We’ll have a nice time together.”
“Oh, may I take my breakfast with Don Miff?”
“Yes, darling.” And Laura skipped out of the room. “You cannot imagine,” continued Mrs. Carter, smiling, “how all of us were puzzled by that name which Laura has just used,—Don Miff. She came in one evening and said that that was your name; and do you know we were all so stupid that we could not imagine what was the English of it till Mr. Whacker met you and told us. ‘Don,’ you will observe, has a decidedly Spanish air; but what nationality did ‘Miff’ indicate?”
“Don Miff, Don Miff,” repeated he, smiling. “Well, that has a decidedly droll sound when seriously spoken as a man’s name. And Mr. Whacker told you that it was, being interpreted, plain John Smith.”
“Yes; and, by the way, it occurs to me that perhaps you would like to know who I am. I am Mrs. Carter” (the Don tried to bow), “and that gentleman seated by the window, who has nursed you so faithfully” (Charley arose), “is Mr. Charles Frobisher, of Leicester County.”
Charley came forward and extended his hand.
“Mr. Charles Frobisher!” echoed the Don, in a startled tone, giving Charley a quick and concentrated glance; and then, as if recovering himself, he took the proffered hand, and said, “Ah, Mr. Frobisher, I am extremely indebted to you.”
“Not at all,” replied Charley. “I could not do too much for one who saved the lives, as you doubtless did, of three of my friends.”
“May I ask whom I so fortunately saved, as you are so good as to say?”