“Everybody calls you London,” said Miss Vane, one evening. “But that must be a nickname. Tell me, what is your real name? What did your mother call you, or do you remember your mother?” she added, softly.
“My real name is Wilfred Vickery,” answered the boy, “but nobody calls me that. Guess Hi’m not worth a real name,” he continued, with a bitter little laugh. “My mother gave me that name, but Hi never ’eard ’er speak it, leastways, not as Hi remembers hof.”
“That is a nice name,” said Myrtle. “I am going to call you Wilfred. You must not think you are not worthy of a good name. You must feel worthy—and then be worthy.”
“That’s not wot they say hin the churches,” the boy replied. “Once Hi went to church hin the school’ouse, to see w’at hit was loike, an’ the preacher said as ’ow we was all sinners, an’ ’ow we was hall to think wot big sinners we was, an’ ’ow we was all to think we was a bigger sinner than anybody helse. Hi guess Hi am, too, bigger’n anybody—’cept old Riles.”
“Have you tried not to be a sinner?” the girl asked.
“Wot? Not to be a sinner? Hi tried to do wot the preacher said, an’ be the biggest sinner ever was. An’ Hi guess Hi am—all but Riles.”
“But that is not what the minister meant, Wilfred. He meant that you must be humble, and that you must be sorry for your own wrongdoing.”
“Why, to be humble is to feel that you are in the world to help, and to be of service to other people, no matter who they may be.”
The question was quite unexpected, and the girl hesitated for a moment as she descended from the abstract to the concrete.
“But people say as ’ow you are proud an’ stuck hup.”
“Riles an’ Mrs. Riles. She says as ’ow you’re a ’ot-’ouse plant, fer hornament more than use.”
“Dear me, that is too bad,” laughed the girl, and the ripple of her voice was good to hear. Even London knew that it was—he couldn’t describe it—but _different_ from any other voice. “But, supposing Mrs. Riles is right, don’t you think that to be an ornament is to be useful? Look at that tiger lily; is it not beautiful? But of what use is it?”
“Hi guess hit haint no use,” said the boy. “But when Hi go over the prairie after the cattle hoften Hi pull a lily, hand Hi loike to walk w’ere they grow.”