eupon he was borne into the house and a consultation of the most
serious practical nature was held. Piles of the last baby's pretty
garments being produced to illustrate any obscure point. The sight of
those garments with their embroidery and many frills fired Tom with new
enthusiasm. He could not resist the temptation to pick up one after
another of the prettiest and most elaborate and hold them out at arm's
length, his fingers stuck through the sleeves the better to survey and
display them to advantage.

"Yes," he kept saying, "that's the kind of thing she wants--pretty and
with plenty of frills."

He seemed to set his heart especially upon this abundance of frills and
kept it in view throughout the entire arrangements. Little Mrs.
Rutherford was to take charge of the matter, purchasing all necessaries
and superintending the work of placing it in competent hands.

"Why," she said, laughing at him delightedly, "she'll be the best dressed
baby in the county."

"I'd like her to be among the best," said Tom, with a grave face, "among
the best."

Whereupon Mrs. Rutherford laughed a little again, and then quite suddenly
stopped and regarded him for a moment with some thoughtfulness.

"He has some curious notions about that baby, mother," she said
afterwards. "I can see it in all he says. Everyone mightn't understand
it. I'm not sure I do myself, but he has a big, kind heart, that Tom de
Willoughby, a big, kind heart."

She understood more clearly the workings of the big, kind heart before he
left them the next morning.

At night after she had put her child to sleep, she joined him on the
front porch, where he sat in the moonlight, and there he spoke more fully
to her.

He had seated himself upon the steps of the porch and wore a deeper
reflective air, as he played with a spray of honeysuckle he had broken
from its vine.

She drew up her rocking-chair and sat down near him.

"I actually believe you are thinking of that baby now," she said, with a
laugh. "You really look as if you were."

"Well," he admitted, "the fact is that's just what I was doing--thinking
of her."

"Well, and what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking--" holding his spray of honeysuckle between his thumb and
forefinger and looking at it in an interested way, "I was thinking about
what name I should give her."

"Oh!" she said, "she hasn't any name?"

"No," Tom answered, without removing his eyes from his honeysuckle, "she
hasn't any n