than the child of a
civilized mother. She was a fat, chubby child, not yet five years
old; black-eyed, black-haired, black-faced, with short, thick curls,
which, damp with perspiration, stood up all over her head, giving
her a singular appearance. She had been playing in the brook, her
favorite companion, and now, with little spatters of mud ornamenting
both face and pantalets, her sun-bonnet hanging down her back, and
her hands full of pebble-stones, she stood furtively eyeing the
stranger, whose mental exclamation was: "Mercy, what a fright!"

"Maude!" exclaimed the distressed Mrs. Remington, "where have you
been? Go at once to Janet, and have your dress changed; then come
back to me."

Nothing loath to join Janet, whose company was preferable to that of
the stranger, Maude left the room, while Dr. Kennedy, turning to
Mrs. Remington, said: "She is not at all like you, my dear."

"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