Lathrop.
"Your father's name wa'n't 'Blank,'" she said; "it was 'Henry.'"
Susan knit her brows.
"I know, 'n' that's one thing 't 's been troublin' me. It's written
out in good plain letters--'Blank Clegg'--'n' I've been tryin' 'n'
tryin' to think what I could 'a' said to 'a' made him suppose 't it
could 'a' been 'Blank.' That 'd be the last name in the wide world for
anybody to name anybody else, I sh'd suppose, 'n' I can't see for the
life o' me why that monument man sh'd 'a' hit on it for father. I'm
cert'nly mighty glad that he's only marked it on in black chalk 'n'
not chopped it out o' the bottom o' the lion. O' course 'f he 'd
chopped it out I'd 'a' had to 'a' taken it an' it'd jus' made me the
laughin'-stock o' the whole community. I know lots o' folks 't are
plenty mean enough 's to say 't that lion was weepin' because I didn't
know my own father's name."
Mrs. Lathrop looked sober.
"So I guess I've got to go to town by to-day's ten o'clock. I ain't no
intention o' takin' the lion, but I _shall_ like to stand off a little
ways 'n' look at the part o' the name 't 's spelt right. Later maybe
I'll visit a few asylums--I ain't sure.
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