"I don't think we have any one here who would suit you," said Mrs.
Blaine.
I didn't think so either. What on earth would Euphemia have done
with that volcanic Irishwoman in her little kitchen! I took up my
hat and bade Mrs. Blaine good morning.
"Good morning," said she, with a distressing smile.
She had one of those mouths that look exactly like a gash in the
face.
I went home without a girl. In a day or two Euphemia came to town
and got one. Apparently she got her without any trouble, but I am
not sure.
She went to a "Home"--Saint Somebody's Home--a place where they
keep orphans to let, so to speak. Here Euphemia selected a light-
haired, medium-sized orphan, and brought her home.
The girl's name was Pomona. Whether or not her parents gave her
this name is doubtful. At any rate, she did not seem quite decided
in her mind about it herself, for she had not been with us more
than two weeks before she expressed a desire to be called Clare.
This longing of her heart, however, was denied her. So Euphemia,
who was always correct, called her Pomona. I did the same whenever
I could think not to say Bologna--which seemed to come very pat for
some reason or other.
As for the boarder, he generally called her Altoona, connecting her
in some way with the process of stopping for refreshments, in which
she was an adept.
She was an earnest, hearty girl. She was always in a good humor,
and when I asked her to do anything, she assented in a bright,
cheerful way, and in a loud tone full of good-fellowship, as though
she would say:
"Certainly, my high old cock! To be sure I will.
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