and certainly would not have rounded off and broken down in with a musical laugh, as Bella did: she placed her husband in his chair, and placed herself upon her stool.
“Now, sir! To begin at the beginning. What is your name?”
A question more decidedly rushing at the secret he was keeping from her, could not have astounded him. But he kept his countenance and his secret, and answered, “John Rokesmith, my dear.”
“Good boy! Who gave you that name?”
With a returning suspicion that something might have betrayed him to her, he answered, interrogatively, “My godfathers and my godmothers, dear love?”
“Pretty good!” said Bella. “Not goodest good, because you hesitate about it. However, as you know your Catechism fairly, so far, I’ll let you off the rest. Now, I am going to examine you out of my own head. John dear, why did you go back, this evening, to the question you once asked me before—would I like to be rich?”