XIX.
GRAY ICE.
During the engagement of my present secretary, a question had frequently
arisen in my mind, which I wished to have answered, but which I had
hesitated to ask, for fear the sister should imagine it indicated too
much personal interest in her. This question related to her name, and
now it was really necessary for me to know it. I did not wish any longer
to speak to her as if she were merely a principle; she had become a most
decided entity. However harsh and gray and woolly her name might be, I
wanted to know it and to hear it from her own lips. The next morning I
asked her what it was.
She was sitting at the table arranging the pages she was going to read,
and at the question she turned toward me. Her face was flushed, but not,
I think, with displeasure.
"Do you know," she said, "it has seemed to me the funniest thing in the
world that you have never cared the least bit to know my name."
"I did care," I replied, "in fact it was awkward not to know it; but of
course I did not want to--interfere in any way with the rules of your
establishment."
"Ah," she said, "I have noticed your extreme solicitude in regard to our
rules, but there is no rule against telling our names. Mine is Sister
Hagar.
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