For Name and Fame | Page 4

wife inquired, when he returned to the drawing
room.
"An insolent gypsy woman, wife of the man who stole the fowls. She
had the impudence to threaten me, if I appeared against him."
"Oh, Robert!" the young wife exclaimed, apprehensively, "what could
she do? Perhaps you had better not appear."
"Nonsense, my dear!" her husband laughed. "Not appear, because an
impudent gypsy woman has threatened me? A nice magistrate I should
be! Why, half the fellows who are committed swear that they will pay
off the magistrate, some day; but nothing ever comes of it. Here, we
have been married six months, and you are wanting me to neglect my
duty; especially when it is your pet fowls which have been stolen.
"Why, at the worst, my dear," he went on, seeing that his wife still

looked pale, "they could burn down a tick or two, on a windy night in
winter and, to satisfy you, I will have an extra sharp lookout kept in
that direction, and have a watchdog chained up near them.
"Come, my love, it is not worth giving a second thought about; and I
shall not tell you about my work on the bench, if you are going to take
matters to heart like this."
The winter came and went, and the ricks were untouched, and Captain
Ripon forgot all about the gypsy's threats. At the assizes a previous
conviction was proved against her husband, and he got five years penal
servitude and, after the trial was over, the matter passed out of the
minds of both husband and wife.
They had, indeed, other matters to think about for, soon after Christmas,
a baby boy was born, and monopolized the greater portion of his
mother's thoughts. When, in due time, he was taken out for walks, the
old women of the village--perhaps with an eye to presents from the
Park--were unanimous in declaring that he was the finest boy ever seen,
and the image both of his father and mother.
He certainly was a fine baby; and his mother lamented sorely over the
fact that he had a dark blood mark, about the size of a three-penny
piece, upon his shoulder. Her husband, however, consoled her by
pointing out that--as it was a boy--the mark did not matter in the
slightest; whereas--had it been a girl--the mark would have been a
disfigurement, when she attained to the dignified age at which low
dresses are worn.
"Yes, of course, that would have been dreadful, Robert. Still, you know,
it is a pity."
"I really cannot see that it is even a pity, little woman; and it would
have made no great difference if he had been spotted all over, like a
leopard, so that his face and arms were free. The only drawback would
have been he would have got some nickname or other, such as 'the
Leopard,' or 'Spotty,' or something of that sort, when he went to bathe
with his school fellows. But this little spot does not matter, in the

slightest.
"Some day or other Tom will laugh, when I tell him what a fuss you
made over it."
Mrs. Ripon was silenced but, although she said nothing more about it,
she was grieved in her heart at this little blemish on her boy; and
lamented that it would spoil his appearance, when he began to run
about in little short frocks; and she determined, at once, that he should
wear long curls, until he got into jackets.
Summer, autumn, and winter came and passed. In the spring, Tom
Ripon was toddling about; but he had not yet begun to talk, although
his mother declared that certain incoherent sounds, which he made,
were quite plain and distinct words; but her husband, while willing to
allow that they might be perfectly intelligible to her, insisted that--to
the male ear--they in no way resembled words.
"But he ought to begin to talk, Robert," his wife urged. "He is sixteen
months old, now, and can run about quite well. He really ought to begin
to talk."
"He will talk, before long," her husband said, carelessly. "Many
children do not talk till they are eighteen months old, some not till they
are two years. Besides, you say he does begin, already."
"Yes, Robert, but not quite plainly."
"No, indeed, not plainly at all," her husband laughed. "Don't trouble,
my dear, he will talk soon enough; and if he only talks as loud as he
roars, sometimes, you will regret the hurry you have been in about it."
"Oh, Robert, how can you talk so? I am sure he does not cry more than
other children. Nurse says he is the best child she ever knew."
"Of course she does, my dear; nurses always do. But I don't say he