And now my son has grown apace, and no longer shows to the world a red and wrinkled face, but one that is fair, with some pink color in his cheeks, where it should be. And his hair—he has a quantity of hair, which, as I understand, is not the habit of new-born infants—his hair is not black, as it was at first, but shows yellow at the ends. Indeed, I marveled somewhat at the blackness of his hair, for my hair is not black, and certainly Eve’s is not. But, when I mentioned the matter, the nurse did but smile at my ignorance and say that it would be light enough in time. And my son has smiled at last—he does little else now,—save when he is laughing. And I—I am become his slave, being no longer a strange animal, and when he wills I bend my head and let him twine his fingers in my hair and pull. He pulls well, and laughs the while, and crows mightily with the joy of it.
And, now, though it is come to the last of November, the fall is kind to us, and Eve walks beside the coach as the nurse wheels it. Where they go when I am not with them I do not know—but I suspect. For Mrs. Goodwin sent, every day, a maid to get the news of Eve. She would not come herself, though she was near it twenty times, and had well nigh set her foot to the steep path; but, always, her stubborn pride prevented. But Old Goodwin is his grandson’s shadow. I shall yet be jealous of him. And so it was come time that we speak of a certain weighty matter.
“Eve,” said I, one day, “I suppose that you will have him christened.” For whenever we say “him” we mean our son; and no doubt I should have said baptized—I did not know about such things.
And Eve was smiling. “Yes,” she answered, “I should like it—and soon, Adam, if we may.”
“And what is his name to be?” I asked. “For that is a trifle that must be settled first, I suppose.”
“I suppose it must,” she said. “And I—what would you name him, Adam?”
“I had thought of giving him your father’s name,” I answered, “but”— And I stammered and hesitated and grew red. But come it must. “That rich man, Eve”—
She laughed aloud, with joy, I thought; and she seized me about the neck and kissed me. “Oh,” she cried, “I hoped you would. And I will write to him, for he must be godfather.”
And so she did write to him, and he came—laden with peace-offerings. And as I met him at my gate he took my hand and gripped it.
“Adam,” he said—and this time, too, I doubted if he knew what he called me—but I did not care. “Adam, it was good of you to think of me—it was kind.” His voice was not steady; but Eve was close behind me, and he must say his greetings to her. So I did not find out whether my voice was any steadier than his.