the tumbler upon the
mantelpiece. "Where's Alf?" the old man asked.

"Gone over to the General's to help about something."

"Where's Guinea?"

"She's about somewhere. That's her in the passage, I think. Guinea?"
There was no reply, save of hastening footsteps, and a moment later a
young woman entered the room. She was not very tall, but she was
graceful, and her dark eyes were dashed with mischief. She reminded me
of the woman whom I had seen on the train; her smile was the same, but
her eyes were brighter. She had a peculiar laugh, a musical cluck, and
at first sight I was glad that I had met her, but a moment later I was
afraid that she was going to laugh at me. The old man did not introduce
me; his wife did not know my name, and I sought to speak my name, but
had lost it just at that moment and could merely splutter something. I
was not much embarrassed, though; I recalled what I had heard the two
men say, and behind me was the strong brace of a woman's kindly regard.

"We are glad to see you," said the girl, looking straight at me. I
replied that I was glad to see her, and then we both laughed; she with
her musical cluck and I with a goat-like rasp, it seemed to me. We all
drew up about the fire-place, a habit in the country, and it was then
that I thought of the open-handed graciousness of the household. Had I
correctly caught this girl's name, Guinea? And with a countryman's
frankness I asked if that were her name.

"Well, no," said Mrs. Jucklin, speaking for her, "it ain't her sure
enough name, but it's all that she goes by. And it came about in this
way: A long time ago, when she was a little bit of a girl, she was
toddlin' about the yard with a checked dress on, and one of the
neighbors lookin' at her said that she looked exactly like a little
guinea chicken, and ever since then we have called her Guinea. Her right
name is Angeline."

"Her right name is what?" the old man asked, looking up.

"Angeline," I said.

"Well, it's the first time I ever heard of it."

"Now, Limuel, why do you want to act that way? A body would think that
you don't know anything about your own family."

"Never heard of it before," said the old man.

"You are surely the most provokin' man I ever saw, Limuel. You know the
very day we named the child, and now you pretend----"

"Pretend? I don't pretend nothin'. Can't blame a man for never hearin'
of the name, can you?"

"Mister," she said, turning to me, "please don't pay a