better. Even their names don't fit 'em, and they get nicknames."

"'Father calls me William,'" murmured Rose.

"'And Mother calls me Will,'" Allison went on. "That's it, exactly. See
how the 'Margarets' are adjusted to themselves by their friends. Some
are 'Margie' and more of 'em are 'Peggy.' 'Margaret' who is allowed to
wear her full name is very rare."

"I'm glad my name can't be changed, easily," she said, thoughtfully.

"It could be 'Rosie,' with an 'ie,' and if you were that sort, it would
be. Take Aunt Francesca, for instance. She might be 'Frances' or 'Fanny'
or even 'Fran,' but her name suits her, so she gets the full benefit of
it, every time."

Madame turned away from the fire, with the air of one who has been away
upon a long journey. "Did I hear my name? Did someone speak to me?"

"Only of you," Allison explained. "We were talking of names and
nicknames and saying that yours suited you."

"If it didn't," observed Madame Bernard, "I'd change it. When we get
civilised, I believe children will go by number until they get old
enough to choose their own names. Fancy a squirming little imp with a
terrible temper being saddled with the name of 'William,' by authority
of Church and State. Except to his doting parents, he'll never be
anything but 'Bill.'"

"Does my name fit me?" queried Isabel, much interested.