hile this strong man yielded to an overwhelming sense of
loss and regret. The memory of his excellent mother came back, by
comparison, to increase his painful confusion.

"My mother, my good mother," he sighed, "noblest and best of Christian
women, for me you died one year too soon. You at least would have read
aright the heart of Juliet. Sainted mother, for thy sake, for all our
sakes, I will do well by Juliet. Since it is as it is, God help me, I
will not fail."

And Juliet, after the anger had cooled in her heart, and the flush died
out somewhat in her cheek, mused thus:

"Was ever another such man as John Temple since the days of Job the
patient? There is no satisfaction in scolding him. Not a word will he
say, but march off dignified as any Lord Admiral. A grand way that is of
heaping coals on my head. I wish I could learn to bite my tongue, as I
know he does his. I am really afraid he will come to disrespect and
despise me. Why can not I mend my ways? But it was aggravating, wasn't
it, Johnnie," turning to his babyship, "to give mamma's darling a very,
very horrible name, and have water poured on his sweet little head by a
naughty, wicked, Irish Romish priest. Yes, that it was, Johnnie dear,
and we won't stand it, will we, Johnnie darling?"

Johnnie signified his concurrence of sentiment by a masterly plunge of
his fat fingers into his precious mamma's curls, which entanglement
caused a rapid "change to come o'er the spirit of her dream."

The anticipated grand Sunday was spent at home by Juliet, in her own
room. The furniture in the best chamber was still graced by her
unappropriated apparel. The christening robe, heavy with embroidery,
hung as if for a crime from its temporary gallows. Juliet stepped in,
viewing them but an instant, then withdrew, locking the door behind her.
Had she seen the seven hanging heads of Bluebeard's decapitated wives,
she would not have been more pained. She returned to her room to weep
over her poor baby, which she regarded as a martyr. Yes, ill-treated had
he been, contemptuously treated; she could have no more pride in him:
henceforth he would be to her an object of pity.

Going and returning from Mass that morning, John Temple began to inquire
if he had not indeed rather wronged his wife, in giving that name to the
child, which he knew to be so repugnant to her taste. He would not have
liked his child to be called Luther or Calvin. He had been thoughtless
and stupid to be su