"Gets drunk every night," interrupted Robin, crossly,--"I know! And I suppose you think I'm another Pettigrew?" "Oh dear, no!" And she laughed with the heartiest merriment. "You never could, you never would be a Pettigrew! But it all comes to the same thing--love ends in marriage, doesn't it?" "It ought to," said Robin, sententiously. "And marriage ends--in Pettigrews!" "Innocent!" "Don't say 'Innocent' in that reproachful way! It makes me feel quite guilty! Now,--if you talk of names,--THERE'S a name to give a poor girl,--Innocent! Nobody ever heard of such a name--" "You're wrong. There were thirteen Popes named Innocent between the years 402 and 1724," said Robin, promptly,--"and one of them, Innocent the Eleventh, is a character in Browning's 'Ring and the Book.'" "Dear me!" And her eyes flashed provocatively. "You astound me with your wisdom, Robin! But all the same, I don't believe any girl ever had such a name as Innocent, in spite of thirteen Popes. And perhaps the Thirteen had other names?" "They had other baptismal names," he explained, with a learned air. "For instance, Pope Innocent the Third was Cardinal Lothario before he became Pope, and he wrote a book called 'De Contemptu Mundi sive de Miseria Humanae Conditionis!'" She looked at him as he uttered the sonorous sounding Latin, with a comically respectful air of attention, and then laughed like a child,--laughed till the tears came into her eyes. "Oh Robin, Robin!" she cried--"You are simply delicious! The most enchanting boy! That crimson tie and that Latin! No wonder the village girls adore you! 'De,'--what is it? 'Contemptu Mundi,' and Misery Human Conditions! Poor Pope! He never sat on top of a hay-load in his life I'm sure! But you see his name was Lothario,--not Innocent." "His baptismal name was Lothario," said Robin, severely. She was suddenly silent. "Well! I suppose _I_ was baptised?" she queried, after a pause. "I suppose so." "I wonder if I have any other name? I must ask Dad." Robin looked at her curiously;--then his thoughts were diverted by the sight of a squat stout woman in a brown spotted print gown and white sunbonnet, who just then trotted briskly into the hay-field, calling at the top of her voice: "Mister Jocelyn! Mister Jocelyn! You're wanted!" "There's Priscilla calling Uncle in," he said, and making a hollow of his hands he shouted: "Hullo, Priscilla! What is it?" The sunbonnet gave an upward jerk in his direction and the wearer shrilled out: "Doctor's come! Wantin' yer Uncle!" The old man, who had been so long quietly seated on the upturned barrel, now rose stiffly, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe turned towards the farmhouse. But before he went he raised his straw hat again and stood for a moment bareheaded in the roseate glory of the sinking sun. Innocent sprang upright on the load of hay, and standing almost at the very edge of it, shaded her eyes with one hand from the strong light, and looked at him.