“Do a wee but of a name change the plans o’ God? Do the world run by hut or muss, an’ be God a weak, shully-shallyun’ creature thot ud alter the fate an’ destiny o’ thungs because the worm Margaret Henan seen fut tull name her bairn Samuel? There be my son Jamie. He wull no sign a Rooshan-Funn un hus crew because o’ believun’ thot Rooshan-Funns do be monajun’ the wunds an’ hov the makun’ o’ bod weather. Wull you be thunkun’ so? Wull you be thunkun’ thot God thot makes the wunds tull blow wull bend Hus head from on high tull lussen tull the word o’ a greasy Rooshan-Funn un some dirty shup’s fo’c’sle?” I said no, certainly not; but she was not to be set aside from pressing home the point of her argument. “Then wull you be thunkun’ thot God thot directs the stars un their courses, an’ tull whose mighty foot the world uz but a footstool, wull you be thunkun’ thot He wull take a spite again’ Margaret Henan an’ send a bug wave off the Cape tull wash her son un tull eternity, all because she was for namun’ hum Samuel?” “But why Samuel?” I asked. “An’ thot I dinna know. I wantud ut so.” “But _why_ did you want it so?” “An’ uz ut me thot would be answerun’ a such-like question? Be there ony mon luvun’ or dead thot can answer? Who can tell the _why_ o’ like? My Jamie was fair daft on buttermilk, he would drunk ut tull, oz he said humself, hus back teeth was awash. But my Tumothy could no abide buttermilk. I like tull lussen tull the thunder growlun’ an’ roarun’, an’ rampajun’. My Katie could no abide the noise of ut, but must scream an’ flutter an’ go runnun’ for the mudmost o’ a feather-bed. Never yet hov I heard the answer tull the _why_ o’ like, God alone hoz thot answer. You an’ me be mortal an’ we canna know. Enough for us tull know what we like an’ what we duslike. I _like_—thot uz the first word an’ the last. An’ behind thot like no men can go an’ find the _why_ o’ ut. I _like_ Samuel, an’ I like ut well. Ut uz a sweet name, an’ there be a rollun’ wonder un the sound o’ ut thot passes onderstandun’.” The twilight deepened, and in the silence I gazed upon that splendid dome of a forehead which time could not mar, at the width between the eyes, and at the eyes themselves—clear, out-looking, and wide-seeing. She rose to her feet with an air of dismissing me, saying— “Ut wull be a dark walk home, an’ there wull be more thon a sprunkle o’ wet un the sky.” “Have you any regrets, Margaret Henan?” I asked, suddenly and without forethought. She studied me a moment. “Aye, thot I no ha’ borne another son.” “And you would . . .?” I faltered. “Aye, thot I would,” she answered. “Ut would ha’ been hus name.” I went down the dark road between the hawthorn hedges puzzling over the why of like, repeating _Samuel_ to myself and aloud and listening to the rolling wonder in its sound that had charmed her soul and led her life in tragic places. _Samuel_! There was a rolling wonder in the sound. Aye, there was!