natural tendency was to view him in rather a jocular light.
In the first place, he had always been thought of as a little girl. It was the old story of "Your sister, Betsey Trotwood;" and when he presented himself, with an unflinching firmness, in the unexpected character of a little boy, serious remonstrance was addressed to him.
"This habit you have contracted of being a little boy," his mamma said to him, "is most inconvenient. Your name was to be Vivien. 'Vivien' is Early English, and picturesque and full of color; Vivian, which is a boy's name, I don't think so much of. It sounds like a dandy, and reminds me of Vivian Grey; but, after the way you have behaved, it is about all I can do for you, because I am too tired of thinking of names to be equal to inventing anything else."
If it had not been for his disguise, and his determination not to be betrayed into the weakness of speech, it is quite possible he might have responded:
"If you will trust the matter to me, I will manage to reconcile you to the name, and make you feel there is some consolation for the fact that I preferred to be myself, instead of Vivien. Just give me time."
We were, of course, obliged to give him time, and he wasted none of it. One of the favorite
