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Rh good boy; of course it was easy to see that he was well-bred. I’ve never altered my opinion.”

Mark looked at her, rosy red even to the tips of his ears. He went up to her with an entirely new freedom and affection of manner.

“See here, Mother Moulton,” he said. “You mustn’t praise me to total strangers!”

It was not hard to see that Mrs. Moulton was delighted by this little speech. Not less than Mark she felt—the childless woman in a happy home, and with a husband such as few women can boast—that it was a great deal “to belong,” to belong in a motherly way, to a fine boy.

“I’ve told Mark that I will not ask him to take my name,” said Mr. Moulton. “He is to be my son, inheriting my property and my work, fulfilling what I cannot finish. But he loved his father, and I should not wish to supplant him, even if I could, which would be impossible nonsense to discuss with a boy worth his salt. But as we all know that when ‘The Study of the Flora of New York’ is published, long after I am dead, it will be under my name and Mark’s, as joint authors—I believe I’d be glad if he would consent to become Mark Moulton Walpole. Would you object, Mark? Mary, urge my request.”