“Because your mamma named you after my name, Jerome.  We used to call you Roma, but that was long for a baby, so we began to call you Jerrie.”

“I like it, papa, because it is your name, and I could tell the girls at Aunt Prue’s that it is my father’s name, and then I would be proud and not ashamed.”

“No, dear, always write it Prudence Holmes—­forget that you had any other name.  It is so uncommon that people would ask how you came by it and then they would know immediately who your father was.”

“But I like to tell them who my father was.  Do people know you in Aunt Prue’s city?”

“Yes, they knew me once and they are not likely to forget.  Promise me, Jerrie—­Prue, that you will give up your first name.”

“I don’t like to, now I must, but I will, papa, and I’ll tell Aunt Prue you liked her name best, shall I?”

“Yes, tell her all I’ve been telling you—­always tell her everything—­never do anything that you cannot tell her—­and be sure to tell her if any one speaks to you about your father, and she will talk to you about it.”

“Yes, papa,” promised the child in an uncomprehending tone.

“Does Nurse teach you a Bible verse every night as I asked her to do?”

“Oh, yes, and I like some of them.  The one last night was about a name!  Perhaps it meant Prue was a good name.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“‘A good name—­a good name—­’” she repeated, with her eyes on the floor of the veranda, “and then something about riches, great riches, but I do forget so.  Shall I run and ask her, papa?”

“No, I learned it when I was a boy:  ’A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.’  Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it:  ‘A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.’  I shan’t forget next time; I’ll think about your name, Jerome, papa; that is a good name, but I don’t see how it is better than great riches, do you?”

The handkerchief was nervously at his lips again, and the child waited for him to speak.

“Jerrie, I have no money to leave you, it will all be gone by the time you and Nurse are safe at Aunt Prue’s.  Everything you have will come from her; you must always thank her very much for doing so much for you, and thank Uncle John and be very obedient to him.”

“Will he make me do what I don’t want to?” she asked, her lips pouting and her eyes moistening.

“Not unless it is best, and now you must promise me never to disobey him or Aunt Prue.  Promise, Jerrie.”

But Jerrie did not like to promise.  She moved her feet uneasily, she scratched on the arm of his chair with a pin that she had picked up on the floor of the veranda; she would not lift her eyes nor speak.  She did not love to be obedient; she loved to be queen in her own little realm of Self.

“Papa is dying—­he will soon go away, and his little daughter will not promise the last thing he asks of her?”