"_I_ know--now--she went to get two glasses from the dresser to take to my
grandfather and that gentleman." He felt voluble from the mere ease of
the answer. But she affected to have heard nothing, and he was obliged to
speak again.

"Now--why, _I_ know a doll that shuts up her eyes every time she lies
down."

The doll at hand was promptly extended on the little lap and with a click
went into sudden sleep while the mother rocked it. He could have ventured
nothing more after this pricking of his inflated little speech. A moment
he stood, suffering moderately, and then would have edged cautiously away
with the air of wishing to go, only at this point, without seeming to see
him, she chirped to him quite winningly in a soft, warm little voice, and
there was free talk at once. He manfully let her tell of all her silly
little presents before talking of his own. He even listened about the
doll, whose name Santa Claus had thoughtfully painted on the box in which
she came; it was a French name, "Fragile."

Then, being come to names, they told their own. Hers, she said, was
Lillian May.

"But your uncle, now--that gentleman--he called you _Nancy_ when you came
in." He waited for her solving of this.

"Oh, Uncle Doctor doesn't know it yet, what my _real_ name is. They call
me Nancy, but that's a very disagreeable name, so I took Lillian May for
my real name. But I tell _very_ few persons," she added, importantly. Here
he was at home; he knew about choosing a good name.