"I say, you know," expostulated Cuthbert Vane, "I thought Crusoe
rather a nice name. Never heard of any chap named Benjy that lived
on an island."
"When I was a little girl, Virginia," remarked Aunt Jane, with the
air of immense age and wisdom which she occasionally assumed, "my
grandmother--your great-grandmother, of course, my love--would
never allow me to name my dolls a second time. She did not approve
of changeableness. And I am sure it must be partly due to your
great-grandmother's teaching that I always know my own mind
directly about everything. She was quite a remarkable woman, and
very firm. Firmness has been considered a family trait with us.
When her husband died--your great-grandfather, you know, dear--she
rose above her grief and made him take some very disagreeable
medicine to the very last, long after the doctors had given up
hope. As some relation or other said, I think your Great-Aunt
Susan's father-in-law, anybody else would have allowed poor John
Harding to die in peace, but trust Eliza to be firm to the end."
Under cover of this bit of family history I tried to rally from my
confusion, but I knew my cheeks were burning. Looks of deepening
surprise greeted the scarlet emblems of discomfiture that I hung
out.
"By heck, bet there's a feller at home named Benjy!" cackled Mr.
Tubbs shrilly, and for once I blessed him.
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