life came to the Vincent farm. One
day, between midnight and dawn, the family pair was doubled; the cry of
twin sons was heard in the hushed house. The father restrained his happy
wonder in his concern for the imperilled life of the mother; he guessed
that she had anticipated death, and she now hung by a thread so slight
that her simple will might snap it. But her will, fortunately, was as
faint as her consciousness; she gradually drifted out of danger, taking
her returning strength with a passive acquiescence rather than with joy.
She was hardly paler than her wont, but the lurking shadow seemed to
have vanished from her eyes, and John Vincent felt that her features
had assumed a new expression, the faintly perceptible stamp of some
spiritual change.

It was a happy day for him when, propped against his breast and gently
held by his warm, strong arm, the twin boys were first brought to be
laid upon her lap. Two staring, dark-faced creatures, with restless
fists and feet, they were alike in every least feature of their
grotesque animality. Phebe placed a hand under the head of each, and
looked at them for a long time in silence.

"Why is this?" she said, at last, taking hold of a narrow pink ribbon,
which was tied around the wrist of one.

"He's the oldest, sure," the nurse answered. "Only by fifteen minutes or
so, but it generally makes a difference when twins come to be named;
and you may see with your own eyes that there's no telling of 'em apart
otherways."

"Take off the ribbon, then," said Phebe quietly; "_I_ know them."

"Why, ma'am, it's always done, where they're so like! And I'll never
be able to tell which is which; for they sleep and wake and feed by the
same clock. And you might mistake, after all, in giving 'em names--"

"There is no oldest or youngest, John; they are two and yet one: this is
mine, and this is yours."

"I see no difference at all, Phebe," said John; "and how can we divide
them?"

"We will not divide," she answered; "I only meant it as a sign."

She smiled, for the first time in many days. He was glad of heart, but
did not understand her. "What shall we call them?" he asked. "Elias and
Reuben, after our fathers?"

"No, John; their names must be David and Jonathan."

And so they were called. And they grew, not less, but more alike, in
passing through the stages of babyhood. The ribbon of the older one had
been removed, and the nurse would have been distracted, but for Phebe's