iful boy like this, I should like him to have a
nice name--a manly name. But, of course, you've thought of one?"

Susie shook her head again.

"No? Will you think me very--well, cheeky--if I suggest some? Now, let
me see! He is fair, isn't he? Some names are appropriate to fair men,
while others are more suitable to dark ones, don't you think so?"

She laughed; but there was no smile in Susie's eyes, as she turned and
looked, moodily, at the baby, one of whose chubby hands was clasping
Celia's finger.

"Let's think of some names," said Celia. "James! I don't like that, do
you? Richard; no, that's a dark name. Percy; how would that do?"

It was almost impossible for the pale face to grow paler, and yet, for a
moment, as the blue eyes fixed themselves on Celia, Susie's pallor
increased. Her arms went out as if she were about to take the child; but
Celia looking up, smiled beseechingly.

"Oh, let me have him a little longer," she pleaded. "You have him all
the time, you know. Let me see, what was the last name--Percy! Do you
like it?"

With an effort, Susie said, slowly, and in almost a whisper:

"My--my father's name was Gerald:--will--will that do?"

"Oh, the very thing!" cried Celia, earnestly. "Gerald. Of course, you
will call him after his grandfather. Do decide on that, Mrs.--Morton,"
she added, with a sudden nervousness.

"I'll call him Gerald, if you like," Susie said, phlegmatically. "Her
ladyship was saying that he ought to be christened."

"Of course," said Celia; "and I'd like to be his godmother, if you'll
let me?"

Susie swung round, her lips parted, her brows bent, and her eyes fixed
on Celia's upturned face.

"You!" she said, as if she were panting. "You'll be a godmother to--him?
And you know what he is--what I am? Her ladyship has told you?"

"Yes," said Celia, in a low voice.

"And you come here to me: you offer to--to do this! Don't you know that
I was driven from my place, the place in which I was born, that every
woman I've met, excepting her ladyship, would like to throw a stone at
me? Why are you different from the others?"

"I don't know," said Celia, simply. "Perhaps it's because Lady
Gridborough told me the whole story. But I'm--you see, I'm young, like
yourself; and though I've mixed in the world, perhaps I haven't learnt
to feel hardly as some of the folks you speak of do. I was going to say
that I pity you, Susie; but I won't say that. I like you, I like to see
you when you