ain with her
hat on and a parasol in her hand.

"Are you going out?" asked Mrs. Dawes.

Marit was standing pulling on her gloves.

"I am going to order visiting-cards."

"Have you no cards?"

"Yes, but they are not suitable now."

"Why not?" said Mrs. Dawes, much surprised. "You thought them so pretty
when we bought them, in Italy."

"Yes--but what I don't think suits me any longer is the name."

"The name?"

Both looked up.

"I feel exactly as if it were no longer mine."

"Marit does not suit you?" said Mrs. Dawes.

Her father added gently: "It was your mother's name."

Marit did not answer at once; she felt the dismay in her father's eyes.

"What do you wish to be called, then, child?" It was again Mrs. Dawes
who spoke.

"Mary."

"Mary?"

"Yes. That suits better, it seems to me."

The silent astonishment of her companions evidently troubled her. She
added:

"Besides, we are going to America now. There they say Mary."

"But you were baptised Marit," put in her father at last.

"What does that matter?"

"It stands in your certificate of baptism, child," added Mrs. Dawes; "it
is your name."

"Yes, it is in the certificate, no doubt--but not in me."

The others stared.

"This grieves your father, child."

"Father is welcome to go on calling me Marit."

Mrs. Dawes looked at her sorrowfully, but said no more. Marit had
finished putting on her gloves.

"In America I am called Mary. I know that. Here is a specimen card. It
looks nice; doesn't it?"

She drew a very small card from her card-case. Mrs. Dawes looked at it,
then handed it to Anders. Upon it was inscribed in minute Italian
characters:

_Mary Krog._

Anders looked at it, looked long; then laid it on the table, took up his
newspaper, and sat as if he were reading.

"I am sorry, Father, that you take it in this way."

Anders Krog said once more, gently, without looking up from his
newspaper: "Marit is your mother's name."

"I, too, am fond of Mother's name. But it does not suit me."

She quietly left the room. Mrs. Dawes, who was sitting at the window,
watched her going along the street. Anders Krog laid down the
newspaper; he could not read. Mrs. Dawes made an attempt to comfort him.
"There is something in what she says; Marit no longer suits her."

"Her mother's name," repeated Anders Krog; and the tears fell.

THREE YEARS LATER

Three years later, in Paris, on a beautiful spring day after rain, Mary