Master Bytes Gridley was greatly exercised about the two “preposterous names,” as he called them, which in a moment of eccentric impulse he had given to these children of nature.  He ventured to hint as much to Mrs. Hopkins.  The good dame was vastly surprised.  She thought they was about as pooty names as anybody had had given ’em in the village.  And they was so handy, spoke short, Sossy and Minthy,—­she never should know how to call ’em anything else.

“But my dear Mrs. Hopkins,” Master Gridley urged, “if you knew the meaning they have to the ears of scholars, you would see that I did very wrong to apply such absurd names to my little fellow-creatures, and that I am bound to rectify my error.  More than that, my dear madam, I mean to consult you as to the new names; and if we can fix upon proper and pleasing ones, it is my intention to leave a pretty legacy in my will to these interesting children.”

“Mr. Gridley,” said Mrs. Hopkins, “you’re the best man I ever see, or ever shall see, . . . except my poor dear Ammi . . . .  I ’ll do jest as you say about that, or about anything else in all this livin’ world.”

“Well, then, Mrs. Hopkins, what shall be the boy’s name?”

“Byles Gridley Hopkins!” she answered instantly.

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Gridley, “think a minute, my dear madam.  I will not say one word,—­only think a minute, and mention some name that will not suggest quite so many winks and whispers.”

She did think something less than a minute, and then said aloud, “Abraham Lincoln Hopkins.”

“Fifteen thousand children have been so christened during the past year, on a moderate computation.”

“Do think of some name yourself, Mr. Gridley; I shall like anything that you like.  To think of those dear babes having a fund—­if that’s the right name—­on purpose for ’em, and a promise of a legacy, I hope they won’t get that till they’re a hundred year old!”

“What if we change Isosceles to Theodore, Mrs. Hopkins?  That means the gift of God, and the child has been a gift from Heaven, rather than a burden.”

Mrs. Hopkins seized her apron, and held it to her eyes.  She was weeping.  “Theodore!” she said, “Theodore!  My little brother’s name, that I buried when I was only eleven year old.  Drownded.  The dearest little child that ever you see.  I have got his little mug with Theodore on it now.  Kep’ o’ purpose.  Our little Sossy shall have it.  Theodore P. Hopkins,—­sha’n’t it be, Mr. Gridley?”

“Well, if you say so; but why that P., Mrs. Hopkins?  Theodore Parker, is it?”

“Doesn’t P. stand for Pemberton, and isn’t Father Pemberton the best man in the world—­next to you, Mr. Gridley?”

“Well, well, Mrs. Hopkins, let it be so, if you are suited, I am.  Now about Helminthia; there can’t be any doubt about what we ought to call her,—­surely the friend of orphans should be remembered in naming one of the objects of her charity.”