bring her over in the summer, and he should show her London,
and all the lovely places, and there would be the letters; she would
write everything--and he must write.

"You little saint," he said when he left her, "you're too good for me,
but all that's best in me belongs to you--my precious."

She went to the door with him and said "good-night" bravely.

Then she shut the door and shivered. When at last she made her way
through the hall to the library, she seemed to be pushing against some
barrier, so that her way was slow.

On the threshold of that room she stopped.

"Dad," she said, sharply.

"My darling."

He sprang to his feet just in time and caught her.

She lay against his heart white and still. The strain of the last two
days had been too great for her, and Little-Lovely Leila had fainted
dead away.

CHAPTER XVI

_In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary._

The christening of Constance's baby brought together a group of
feminine personalities, which, to one possessed with imagination, might
have stood for the evil and beneficent fairies of the old story books.

The little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson, in spite of the dignity
of her hyphenated name, was a wee morsel. Swathed in fine linen, she
showed to the unprejudiced eye no signs of great beauty. With a
wrinkly-red skin, a funny round nose, a toothless mouth--she was like
every other normal baby of her age, but to her family and friends she
was a rare and unmatched object.

Even Aunt Frances succumbed to her charms. "I must say," she remarked
to Delilah Jeliffe, as they bent over the bassinet, "that she is
remarkable for her age."

Delilah shrugged. "I'm not fond of them. They're so red and squirmy."

Leila protested hotly. "Delilah, she's lovely--such little perfect
hands."

"Bird's claws!"

Mary took up the chant. "Her skin's like a rose leaf."

And Grace: "Her hair is going to be gold, like her mother's."

"Hair?" Delilah's tone was incredulous. "She hasn't any."

Aunt Frances expertly turned the small morsel on its back. "What do
you call that?" she demanded, indignantly.

Above the fat crease of the baby's neck stuck out a little feathery
duck's-tail curl--bright as a sunbeam.

"What do you call that?" came the chorus of worshipers.

Delilah gave way to quiet, mocking laughter. "That isn't hair," she
said; "it is just a s