somewhere, if there was no time in
England. At any rate, my father is not to be blamed."

"Papistical baptism is worse than none," the Major said, impressively.
"Never mind, my dear, we will make that all right. You shall not be a
savage always. We will take the opportunity to change your name. Erema
is popish and outlandish; one scarcely knows how to pronounce it. You
shall have a good English Christian name--Jemima, Jane, or Sophy. Trust
me to know a good name. Trust me."

"Jemima!" I cried. "Oh, Mr. Shovelin, save me from ever being called
Jemima! Rather would I never be baptized at all."

"I am no judge of names," he answered, smiling, as he shook hands with
us; "but, unless I am a very bad judge of faces, you will be called just
what you please."

"And I please to be called what my father called me. It may be unlucky,
as a gentleman told me, who did not know how to pronounce it. However,
it will do very well for me. You wish to see me, then, to-morrow, Mr.
Shovelin?"

"If you please; but later in the day, when I am more at leisure. I do
not run away very early. Come at half past four to this door, and
knock. I hear every sound at this door in my room; and the place will be
growing quiet then."

He showed us out into a narrow alley through a heavy door sheathed with
iron, and soon we recovered the fair light of day, and the brawl and
roar of a London street.

"Now where shall we go?" the Major asked, as soon as he had found a cab
again; for he was very polite in that way. "You kept early hours with
your 'uncle Sam,' as you call Colonel Gundry, a slow-witted man, but
most amusing when he likes, as slow-witted men very often are. Now will
you come and dine with me? I can generally dine, as you, with virtuous
indignation, found out at Southampton. But we are better friends now,
Miss Heathen."

"Yes, I have more than I can ever thank you for," I answered, very
gravely, for I never could become jocose to order, and sadness still was
uppermost. "I will go where you like. I am quite at your orders, because
Betsy Bowen is busy now. She will not have done her work till six
o'clock."

"Well done!" he cried. "Bravo, Young America! Frankness is the finest of
all good manners. And what a lot of clumsy deception it saves! Then let
us go and dine. I will imitate your truthfulness. It was two words for
myself, and one for you. The air of London always makes me hungry after
too much country air. It is wrong altogether,