“My little grandchilders’ coushin, Mishter Coristine, do be sayin’ yer name is Eujane, an’ that’s Frinch, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the lawyer; “my mother was of Huguenot descent, and her name was Du Moulin.  Some say that the Irish Mullens were once Du Moulins.  That I don’t know, but I’m not like the man-servant who applied for a situation, saying:  ’Me name is Murphy, sorr, but me family came from France.’  Coristine, I think, is good Irish.”

The name craze spread over the whole table.  Miss Halbert thought Basil a lovely name.  It was Greek, wasn’t it, and meant a king?  Mr. Perrowne thought that the sweetest name in the world was Frances or Fanny.  Mr. Errol affected Marjorie, and Mrs. Carmichael knew nothing superior to Hugh.

“What made you so savage with the Captain for coupling your name with Wilks?” asked the lawyer in an undertone.

“Because he is the last man in the world I should want my name to be coupled with.”

“Oh, but that’s hard on Wilks; he’s a glorious fellow when you get to know his little ways.”

“I don’t want to know Mr. Wilkinson’s little ways.  I am sorry for his wound, but otherwise I have not the remotest sympathy with him.  He strikes me as a selfish, conceited man.”

“Not a kinder soul breathing, Miss Carmichael.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Who, then?”

“Yourself.”

“Miss Carmichael, you make me the proudest man in the world, but I’m not fit to black Wilks’ boots.”

“Well, I will not be so rude as to say I think you are.  But, never talk that way to me again, if you want me to like you.  I will not have you demeaning yourself, even in speech, before Cecile’s friend.  Now, remember, not a word!”

The test was a severe one between loyalty to his old friend and devoted obedience to the girl he loved.  As all the memories of past friendship came before him, he was inclined to be obdurate.  Then, he looked at the golden hair which had brushed his awhile ago, and, as the head straightened up, at the pretty petulant lips and the blue eyes, lustrous with just a moist suspicion of vexation and feeling, and he wavered.  He was lost, and was glad to be lost, as he whispered:  “May I say it?”

“Yes; speak out, like a man, what you have to say.”

“It’s a bargain, Marjorie; never again!”

Somehow his right hand met her left, and she did not snatch it away too quickly.  Then he said:  “You won’t hate poor Wilks, my old friend, Marjorie?”

She answered “No,” and turned her face away to ask some trivial question of the Squire, who knew a good deal more than he saw any necessity for telling.