“I am afraid not,” replied Mrs. Meredith, a little coolly.  Her mission had been to adorn and people the earth, not to study it.  And among persons of her acquaintance it was the prime duty of each not to lay bare the others’ ignorance, but to make a little knowledge appear as great as possible.  It was discomfiting to have Pansy charge upon what after all was only a vacant spot in her mind.  She added, as defensively intimating that the subject had another dangerous side: 

“When I was a girl, young ladies at school did not learn much botany; but they paid a great deal of attention to their manners.”

“Why did not they learn it after they had left school and after they had learned manners?” inquired Pansy, with ruthless enthusiasm.  “It is such a mistake to stop learning everything simply because you have stopped school.  Don’t you think so?”

“When a girl marries, my dear, she soon has other studies to take up.  She has a house and husband.  The girls of my day, I am afraid, gave up their botanies for their duties:  it may be different now.”

“No matter how many children I may have,” said Pansy, positively, “I shall never—­give—­up—­botany!  Besides, you know, Mrs. Meredith, that we study botany only during the summer months, and I do hope—­” she broke off suddenly.

Mrs. Meredith smoothed her dress nervously and sought to find her chair comfortable.

“Your mother named you Pansy,” she remarked, taking a gloomy view of the present moment and of the whole future of this acquaintanceship.

That this should be the name of a woman was to her a mistake, a crime.  Her sense of fitness demanded that names should be given to infants with reference to their adult characters and eventual positions in life.  She liked her own name “Caroline”; and she liked “Margaret” and all such womanly, motherly, dignified, stately appellatives.  As for “Pansy,” it had been the name of one of her husband’s shorthorns, a premium animal at the county fairs; the silver cup was on the sideboard in the dining room now.

“Yes, Mrs. Meredith,” replied Pansy, “that was the name my mother gave me.  I think she must have had a great love of flowers.  She named me for the best she had.  I hope I shall never forget that,” and Pansy looked at Mrs. Meredith with a face of such gravity and pride that silence lasted in the parlors for a while.

Buried in Pansy’s heart was one secret, one sorrow:  that her mother had been poor.  Her father wore his yoke ungalled; he loved rough work, drew his religion from privations, accepted hardship as the chastening that insures reward.  But that her mother’s hands should have been folded and have returned to universal clay without ever having fondled the finer things of life—­this to Pansy was remembrance to start tears on the brightest day.

“I think she named you beautifully,” said Mrs. Meredith, breaking that silence, “and I am glad you told me, Pansy.”  She lingered with quick approval on the name.