If not, she’ll die long before we could hope to reach

"No," answered the lady; "she is like her father in everything; the same eyes, the same hair, and--"

She was going on to say more, when the expression of Dr. Kennedy's face stopped her, and she began to wonder if she had displeased him. Dr. Kennedy could talk for hours of "the late Mrs. Kennedy," accompanying his words with long-drawn sighs, and enumerating her many virtues, all of which he expected to be improved upon by her successor; but he could not bear to hear the name of Harry Remington spoken by one who was to be his wife, and he at once changed the subject of Maude's looks to her name, which he learned was really Matilda. She had been called Maude, Matty said, after one who was once a very dear friend both of herself and her husband.

"Then we will call her Matilda," said he, "as it is a maxim of mine never to spoil children by giving them pet names."

"But you call your daughter Nellie," suggested the little widow, and in her soft, blue eye there shone a mischievous twinkle, as if she fancied she had beaten him with his own argument.

But if she thought to convince that most unreasonable man, she was mistaken. What he did was no criterion for others, unless he chose that it should be so, and he answered, "That is sister Kelsey's idea, and as she is very fond of Nellie I do not interfere. But, seriously, Matty, darling,"--and he drew her to his side, with an uncommon show of fondness,--" I cannot call your daughter Maude; I do not like the name, and it is a maxim of mine, that if a person dislikes a name, 'tis an easy matter to dislike the one who bears it."

Had Mrs. Remington cared less for him than she did, she might have wondered how many more disagreeable maxims he had in store. But love is blind, or nearly so; and when, as if to make amends for his remarks, he caressed her with an unusual degree of tenderness, the impulsive woman felt that she would call her daughter anything which suited him. Accordingly, when at last Maude returned to the parlor, with her dress changed, her curls arranged, and her dimpled cheeks shining with the suds in which they had been washed, she was prepared to say Matilda or whatever else pleased his capricious fancy.

"Little girl," he said, extending his hand toward her, "little girl, come here. I wish to talk with you."

But the little girl hung back, and when tier mother insisted upon her going to the gentleman, asking if she did not like him, she answered decidedly, "No, I don't like him, and he shan't be my pa, either!"

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