If only I could sleep. Ah, yes, that is what
I could almost wish for at this moment--sweet, soothing, refreshing
sleep.
But it is not to be; the house is just a great tearing pandemonium of
joy. Hark! What's that? A motor horn? Yes, yes, a taxi is at the gate.
Now another has glided forward and waits expectantly for the central
figure--myself.
"Well, darling," murmurs my father, "it's high time we were off.
Wouldn't do to be late today, you know." And he laughs proudly.
Can I describe the journey to the church? I can, but I will spare you.
Enough to say that I carry myself with dignity. Whether I do so in the
vast solemn atmosphere of the church I am unable to say, though I will
confess to a feeling almost of awe.
In deep silence we move down the aisle. The service begins. Can I
repeat it? I fear not. But one passage there is which stands out
prominently from the rest. It is in the form of a demand made by the
clergyman. Looking steadily at my father, he exclaims:--
"_Name this child_."
I am roused to a fresh interest, and with fast-beating heart I await
my father's answer.
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