There was a family group in the big room at the golden house. The mother sat in the centre, with the brown baby on her knee. The heads of the six fair-haired children were bent down over the new treasure like a cluster of rough-hewn angels in the Bethlehem scene, as carved out by some reverent artist of old. With a puzzled, half-pleased glance the stalwart father looked down upon them all, like a benignant giant.

“Is he really our own little baby now?” said one of the children.

“What shall we call him?” asked another.

“We’ll name him, of course, after the bear,” said the oldest boy, who liked to take the lead in the family. “I heard the man call him Pionono, and he said the bear knew his name.”

“We won’t call him after that horrid bear!” exclaimed Karin.

“Uncle Bjoern is as nice as anybody, and his name is just ‘bear,’” urged one of the boys.

“Don’t contrary your mother,” said Jan decidedly. “Pionono is too long a name. We’ll call him Nono, and that’s a nice name, to my thinking.”

“A nice, pretty little name,” said the mother, “and I like it.”

And so the matter was settled. The little brown baby was to be called after a pope and bear, in Protestant Sweden. Nono (the ninth) suited him better than any one around him suspected. The tiny Italian was really the ninth baby that had come to the golden house. Karin had now six children. She had laid her firstborn in the grave long ago, and lately her little Gustaf had been placed beside him in the churchyard.

Classification simplified matters in Karin’s family, as elsewhere. The children were divided by common consent into three pairs, known as the boys, the twins, and the little boys. For each division the laws and privileges were fixed and unalterable. “The boys,” Erik and Oke, were the oldest pair. Erik was at present a smaller edition of his father, with a fair promise of a full development in the same direction. Now, at twelve years of age, he was almost as tall as his mother, and could have mastered her at any time in a fair fight. Oke, a year younger, was pale, and slight, and stooping, with a thin, straight nose, quite out of keeping with the large, strongly-marked features of the rest of the children. As for “the twins,” it was difficult to think of them as two boys. They were so much alike that their mother could hardly tell them apart. Indeed, she had a vague idea that she might have changed them without knowing it many times since they were baptized. How could she be sure that the one she called Adam was not Enos, and Enos the true Adam? Of two things she was certain that she loved them both as well as a mother ever loved a pair of twins, and that they were worthy of anybody’s unlimited affection. She was proud of them, too. Were they not known the country round as Jan Persson’s splendid twins, and the fattest boys in the parish? As for “the little boys,” they were much like the Irishman’s “little pig who jumped about so among the others he never could count him.” “The little boys” were always to be found in unexpected and exceptionable places, to the great risk of life and limb, and the great astonishment of the beholders. To try to ride on a strange bull-dog or kiss a bear was quite a natural exploit for them, for they feared neither man nor beast.

As for Karin, she was not a worrying woman, and took the care of her many children cheerily. She could but do her best, and leave the rest to God and the holy angels. Those precious protectors had lately seemed very near to her, since baby Gustaf had gone to live among them. That all would go right with Nono she did not doubt. When she laid him down for the night, she clasped his tiny brown hands, and prayed not only for him, but for his poor mother, wherever she might be, and left her to the care of the merciful Friend who could give to wild lunatics full soundness of mind.