These names, decidedly alarming ones, had been given to her by Mrs. Larcher, who had selected them from the "Family Herald," her favourite journal, but Dr. Larcher, who had no fancy for high-sounding titles, called his daughter Pumpkin. This unhappy cognomen had been bestowed on the child by the nurse, in despair at being unable to master the legitimate names, and the vicar was so pleased with the oddity of the title that he there and then adopted it. Mrs. Larcher, however, obstinately refused to accept this innovation, and called her daughter Eleonora Gwendoline, but generally Miss Larcher answered to the name of Pumpkin, her aristocratic names being only brought out on company occasions.
She was a pretty, plump girl, with dark eyes and a rosy face. Endowed with a large amount of common sense, her tastes lay in the direction of making puddings and mending clothes, whilst she evinced a great contempt for poetry and such-like things. Mrs. Larcher, being an invalid, left the management of the house entirely to Pumpkin, who ruled the servants with a rod of iron, looked after the creature comforts of her father and his pupils, and was besides a bright, lively girl whom everyone adored.
As to Mrs. Larcher, she was always ill, but why she should be so was a mystery to everyone save herself. It was either her nerves or her liver or her spine or her laziness, most probably the latter, as she mostly passed her life alternating between the sofa and her bed. Occasionally she strolled out, but always came back feeling weak and bad, to be strengthened with strong tea and hot muffins, after which she would bewail her delicate constitution in a subdued whimper. Her unknown malady was known to all as "The Affliction," that being a generic name for all kinds of diseases, and Mrs. Larcher herself alluded to her ill health by this title as being a happy one and necessitating no special mention of any one infirmity. Pumpkin looked after everything and was the good fairy of the vicarage, while Mrs. Larcher lay all day on her sofa reading novels and drinking tea, or gossiping with any visitors who might drop in.
At present Mrs. Larcher was safe in bed upstairs and Pumpkin presided at the breakfast-table, which was now covered with an array of empty dishes, as the male portion of the vicarage inmates, with the exception of the poet, had large appetites. Dr. Larcher, however, had been too excited to eat much, and had his eyes intently fixed upon his newly-discovered bronze implement.