in
the same position in the morning."

(They were days when, as I afterwards learnt, Napoleon's troops and
flat-bottomed boats were gathered at Boulogne and waiting their
opportunity to invade us. But of this scarcely an echo penetrated to
our courtyard, although the streets outside were filled daily with
the tramping of troops and rolling of store-wagons. We knew that our
country--whatever that might mean--was at war with France, and we
played in our yard a game called "French and English." That was all:
and Miss Plinlimmon, good soul, if at times she awoke in the night
and shuddered and listened for the yells of Frenchmen in the town,
heroically kept her fears to herself. This was as near as she ever
came to imparting them.)

"I have often thought of you, Harry," she went on, "as embracing a
military career. Mr. Scougall very kindly allows me to choose
surnames for you boys when you--when you leave us. He says (but I
fear in flattery) that I have more invention than he." And here,
though bound on my word of honour not to look, I felt sure she was
smiling to herself in the glass. "What would you say if I christened
you Revelly?"

"Oh, please, no!" I entreated. "Let mine be an English name.
Why--why couldn't I be called Plinlimmon? I would rather have that
than any name in the world."

"You are a darling!" exclaimed she, much to my surprise; and, the
next moment, I felt a little pecking kiss on the back of my neck.
She usually kissed me at night, after my prayers were said: but
somehow this was different, and it fetched tears to my eyes--greatly
to my surprise, for we were not given to tears at the Genevan
Hospital. "Plinlimmon is a mountain in Wales, and that, I dare say,
is what makes me so romantic. Now, you are not romantic in the
least: and, besides, it wouldn't do. No, indeed. But you shall be
called by an English name, if you wish, though to my mind there's a
_je ne sais quoi_ about the French. I once knew a Frenchman, a
writing and dancing master, called Duvelleroy, which always seemed
the beautifullest name."

"Was he beautiful himself?" I asked.

"He used to play a kit--which is a kind of small fiddle--holding it
across his waist. It made him look as if he were cutting himself in
half; which did not contribute to that result. But suppose, now, we
call you Revel--Harry Revel? That's English enough, and will remind
me just the same--if Mr. Scougall will not think it too
Anacherontic."