I remember the long discussions of this point, the family-lore which Aunt Varina brought forth.  It did not seem to her quite the thing to call a blind child after a member of one’s family.  Something strange, romantic, wistful—­yes, Elaine was the name!  Mrs. Tuis, it transpired, had already baptised the infant, in the midst of the agonies and alarms of its illness.  She had called it “Sylvia,” and now she was tremulously uncertain whether this counted—­whether perhaps the higher powers might object to having to alter their records.  But in the end a clergyman came out from Key West and heard Aunt Varina’s confession, and gravely concluded that the error might be corrected by a formal ceremony.  How strange it all seemed to me—­being carried back two or three hundred years in the world’s history!  But I gave no sign of what was going on in my rebellious mind.

22.  Dr. Overton on his return to New York, sent a special nurse to take charge of Sylvia’s case.  There was also an infant’s nurse, and both had been taken into the doctor’s confidence.  So now there was an elaborate conspiracy—­no less than five women and two men, all occupied in keeping a secret from Sylvia.  It was a thing so contrary to my convictions that I was never free from the burden of it for a moment.  Was it my duty to tell her?

Dr. Perrin no longer referred to the matter—­I realised that both he and Dr. Gibson considered the matter settled.  Was it conceivable that anyone of sound mind could set out, deliberately and in cold blood, to betray such a secret?  But I had maintained all my life the right of woman to know the truth, and was I to back down now, at the first test of my convictions?

When the news reached Douglas van Tuiver that his wife had been informed of the infant’s blindness, there came a telegram saying that he was coming.  There was much excitement, of course, and Aunt Varina came to me, in an attempt to secure a definite pledge of silence.  When I refused it, Dr. Perrin came again, and we fought the matter over for the better part of a day and night.

He was a polite little gentleman, and he did not tell me that my views were those of a fanatic, but he said that no woman could see things in their true proportion, because of her necessary ignorance concerning the nature of men, and the temptations to which they were exposed.  I replied that I believed I understood these matters thoroughly, and I went on, quite simply and honestly, to make clear to him that this was so.  In the end my pathetically chivalrous little Southern gentleman admitted everything I asked.  Yes, it was true that these evils were ghastly, and that they were increasing, and that women were the worst sufferers from men.  There might even be something in my idea that the older women of the community should devote themselves to this service, making themselves race-mothers, and helping, not merely in their homes, but in the schools and churches, to protect and save