"And I ruthlessly gave them away," said Raeburn, smiling. "That
was hard lines; I though they were only household stock. But after
all it comes to the same thing in the end, or better. You have
given them to me by giving them to the child. Never mind, 'Little
son Eric!'"

This was his pet name for her, and it meant a great deal to them.
She was his only child, and it had at first been a great
disappointment to every one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn
had long ago ceased to regret this, and the nickname referred more
to Erica's capability of being both son and daughter to him, able
to help him in his work and at the same time to brighten his home.
Erica was very proud of her name, for she had been called after her
father's greatest friend, Eric Haeberlein, a celebrated republican,
who once during a long exile had taken refuge in London. His views
were in some respects more extreme than Raeburn's, but in private
life he was the gentlest and most fascinating of men, and had quite
won the heart of his little namesake.

As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen that
something had gone wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which
had noticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at
once that his own child had been troubled.

"Something has vexed you," he said. "What is the matter, Erica?"

"I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much," said
Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones
had become absorbingly interesting.