“But mother knows us all apart,” said Robina, “and so do Hannah French and our dear grandfather and grandmother Bangs—they never are in doubt.” “Don’t tell me this,” said surly Mr. Bangs, “for have I not heard your mother call you the one half of four or five names before she could hit on the right one? Does she not call out ‘Phil—Will—Fred—Jo—Ben—Robina, fetch me the poor, dear, chubby, little thing out of the cradle?’ Tell her that Fabius Floss won’t think it any compliment to name a girl after his fine little boy, and tell her that I am not going to stand godfather to any more of her children, for I am tired of it.” “But the name, father—shall mother call it Frances?” “She may call it _Souse_ if she likes; what is the name of a girl to me? it is all one, so go away, Robina, for I am busy.” Christopher Bangs was now a rich man, and was cautious and prudent in all his money matters, but he had no more care of his children and household than if he were the great-grandfather. He arose early, went to the workshop, saw that every thing went right there, returned home at eight, with the certainty of finding the breakfast waiting for him. At this meal he only saw some of the eldest of the girls, but being a man of few words, and looking on women and girls as mere workers, and of a different race, he had no thoughts in common with them. The conversation, therefore, was all on the part of Mrs. Bangs, who told of the price of beef and poultry, and what her husband might expect at dinner. He nodded his head drily, but said nothing, being sure that, come what would, he should find an excellent meal. He gave her as much money as she wanted, a privilege which she never abused, and all he had to do was to build a new house whenever she presented him with another poor, chubby, little thing; for she had resolved that every child should have a house. Exactly at one o’clock his dinner was ready, and at this meal all the children were assembled—for, as his wife observed, if he did not see them all together once a day, he might chance to forget some of them; so, in time, Frances, the baker’s dozen, came to sit on Mrs. Bangs’s lap. Every day he made the same remark on entering the dining room, the children all being seated before he entered, that the bustle of placing them might be over before he came—“What! here you all are, all waiting I see; well, keep quiet and help one another; don’t expect me to do more than carve.” Mrs. Bangs had drilled the children well, for a more orderly, peaceable set were never seen. Her chief aim was to keep them from troubling their father. “Poor man,” she would say, “he must not be plagued with noise, for what with the business of the laboratory and building new houses, his hands are full—but let that alone, ‘tis no concern of ours.”