“Remember,” I cautioned her, “if he goes within a mile of the sewing-room he leaves the world, or at any rate this house, within the hour.” She promised faithfully and, I believe, spent a sleepless night planning how he should whittle away his noisy and disorderly days. She asked me to suggest a name for him, and I said that it would be a certain comfort and distraction to me if she called him Rose, but she would not have that, because, in the first place, Rose was a lady’s name, and he was nothing if not a real gentleman, and the smell would soon wear off--she had not noticed it, in fact. I then suggested “Gobble,” “Slop,” “Skid” (because I hated the way he slithered and skated on the polished floors), “Nebuchadnezzar” (because his nails were so long and dirty, and he was always choking over bits of grass), “Keating” (because he appeared to be troubled with them), but she rejected all these and called him Sam, because there was something in his bloodshot eyes that reminded her of a favourite cousin who had died. “That’s a good idea,” I agreed, “let us hope there is something in a name after all. Did your cousin die of eating too much Limerick lace?” “Oh, no, ma’am,” she said proudly, “he died of whooping-cough.” (I have often thought that may be the matter with Sam, was my private reflection.) “And as for the lace, I do hope, ma’am, you will overlook that; it was quite a mistake of the poor boy’s. He was after a rabbit just when I happened to have my work outside, and he was so excited he never stopped to think.”