Then Maria made that inevitable rejoinder which is made always, which
is at once trite and pathetic. "I can't call her mother," she said.

But Harry only laughed. He was too delighted and triumphant to
realize the pain of the child, although he loved her. "Oh, well,
dear, you needn't until you feel like it," he said.

"What am I going to call her, father?" asked Maria, seriously.

"Oh, anything. Call her Ida."

"She is too old for me to call her that," replied Maria.

"Old? Why, dear, Ida is only a girl."

"She is a good deal over thirty," said Maria. "I call that very old."

"You won't, when you get there yourself," replied Harry, with another
laugh. "Well, dear, suit yourself. Call her anything you like."

It ended by Maria never calling her anything except "you," and
referring to her as "she" and "her." The woman, in fact, became a
pronoun for the child, who in her honesty and loyalty could never put
another word in the place which had belonged to the noun, and feel
satisfied.

Maria was very docile, outwardly, in those days, but inside she was
in a tumult of rebellion. She went home with Miss Slome when she was
asked, but she was never gracious in response to the doll-like smile,
and the caressing words, which were to her as automatic as the smile.