“Quite, sir; but very anxious about the child’s name, and requests to speak with you as soon as you have breakfasted.”

“We will go to her.  You have no idea,” observed the planter to Mr Berecroft and Newton, “what importance these people attach to the naming of their children.  Nothing but a fine long name will satisfy them.  I really believe, that if I refused her, or called the boy Tom, she would eat dirt.  I believe we have all done:  Boy Jack, bring the sangoree.  Doctor, I daresay that your clay wants moistening, so take the first pull.”

This important commencement and finale to the repast having been duly administered, they proceeded to the range of buildings before mentioned, in one of which they found the lady in the straw, sitting up, and showing her white teeth at her master’s approach, as if nothing very particular had occurred.

“Well, Mattee, how are you?” said the planter.  “Where’s the piccaninny?”

“Ab um here, sar—­keep im warm,” replied the woman, pointing to a roll of blanket, in which the little creature was enveloped.

“Let us see him, Mattee.”

“No sar, too cold yet—­bye bye, massa, see um; make very fine sleep now.  Suppose white piccaninny, suppose black piccaninny—­all same—­like plenty sleep.  Um know very well, hab plenty work to do bye bye—­sleep all dey can, when lilly.”

“But you’ll smother him,” observed Newton.

“Smoder him?—­what dat—­eh?—­I know now massa mean, stop um breath.  No:  suppose him no smoder before, no smoder now, sar.  Massa,” continued the woman, turning to the planter, “no ab name for piccaninny?”

“Well, Mattee, we must find one; these gentlemen will give him a name.  Come, captain, what name do you propose?”

“Suppose we christen him Snub,” replied Berecroft, winking at the rest.

“Snob!  What sart a name you call dat, sar?” replied the woman, tossing up her head.  “Snob! no, sar, you ’front me very much.  Snob not proper name.”

“Well, then, Mr Forster,” said the planter, “try if you can be more fortunate.”

“What do you think of Chrononhotonthologus?” said Newton to the woman.

“Eh! what dat?—­say that again, sar,” replied the woman.

“Chrononhotonthologus.”

“Eh! dat real fine name for piccaninny,” cried the woman, with delight in her countenance.  “Many tanky, sar.  Chroton—­polygarse.”

“No, no,” replied Newton, laughing; “Chrononhotonthologus.”

“Es, hab um now—­Hoton—­tolyglass.”

“No, that’s only part.  Chronon—­hoton—­thologus.”

“I see—­very fine name—­Proton—­choton—­polyglass.”

“Yes, that’s nearer to it,” replied Newton.

“Well, then, that point’s settled,” said the planter to the woman.  “Is it all right, Mattee?”

“Es, massa; many tanks to gentleman—­very fine name, do very well, sar.”

“Doctor, put the name down opposite the register of the birth.  Now, Mattee, all’s right, good-bye,” said the planter, leaving the room and followed by the others.