ontrolled herself. "Julia said you wanted me. I must have been going
down the back stairs when you came up the front, and--"

"Please, Mrs. Henshaw, is it Dot you have in here, or Dimple?" asked a
new voice, as the second nurse entered by another door.

Before Mrs. Henshaw could answer, Cyril, who had got to his feet, turned
sharply.

"Is it--_who_?" he demanded.

"Oh! Oh, Mr. Henshaw," stammered the girl. "I beg your pardon. I didn't
know you were here. It was only that I wanted to know which baby it was.
We thought we had Dot with us, until--"

"Dot! Dimple!" exploded the man. "Do you mean to say you have given my
_sons_ the ridiculous names of '_Dot_' and '_Dimple_'?"

"Why, no--yes--well, that is--we had to call them something," faltered
the nurse, as with a despairing glance at her mistress, she plunged
through the doorway.

Cyril turned to his wife.

"Marie, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Why, Cyril, dear, don't--don't get so wrought up," she begged. "It's
only as Mary said, we _had_ to call them something, and--"

"Wrought up, indeed!" interrupted Cyril, savagely. "Who wouldn't be?
'Dot' and 'Dimple'! Great Scott! One would think those boys were a
couple of kittens or puppies; that they didn't know anything--didn't
have any brains! But they have--if the other is anything like this one,
at least," he declared, pointing to his son on the floor, who, at
this opportune moment joined in the conversation to the extent of an
appropriate "Ah--goo--da--da!"

"There, hear that, will you?" triumphed the father. "What did I tell
you? That's the way he's been going on ever since I came into the room;
The little rascal knows me--so soon!"

Marie clapped her fingers to her lips and turned her back suddenly,
with a spasmodic little cough; but her husband, if he noticed the
interruption, paid no heed.

"Dot and Dimple, indeed!" he went on wrathfully. "That settles it. We'll
name those boys to-day, Marie, _to-day!_ Not once again will I let the
sun go down on a Dot and a Dimple under my roof."

Marie turned with a quick little cry of happiness.

"Oh, Cyril, I'm so glad! I've so wanted to have them named, you know!
And shall we call them Franz and Felix, as we'd talked?"

"Franz, Felix, John, James, Paul, Charles--anything, so it's sane and
sensible! I'd even adopt Calderwell's absurd Bildad and--er--Tomdad, or
whatever it was, rather than have those poor little chaps insulted a
day longer with a '