pause, she skimmed lightly on to another phase of the subject. “What should you say was the character and life history of a woman who could call her eldest child ‘Daniel,’ the second ‘Viola Imogen,’ and the third and fourth ‘Hannah’ and ‘John’?” Clemence had no inspiration on the subject. She said: “Don’t be silly!” sharply, and left it to Lavender to supply the necessary stimulus. “Tell us, Darsie, tell us! You make it up—” “My dear, it is evident to the meanest intellect. She was the child of a simple country household, who, on her marriage, went to live in a town; and when her first-born son was born, she pined to have him christened by her father’s name in the grey old church beneath the ivy tower; so they travelled there, and the white-haired sire held the infant at the font, while the tears furrowed his aged cheeks. But—by slow degrees the insidious effects of the great capital invaded the mind of the sweet young wife, and the simple tastes of her girlhood turned to vanity, so that when the second babe was born, and her husband wished to call her Hannah after her sainted grandmother, she wept, and made an awful fuss, and would not be consoled until he gave in to Viola Imogen, and a christening cloak trimmed with plush. And she was christened in a city church, and the organ pealed, and the godmothers wore rich array, and the poor old father stayed at home and had a slice of christening cake sent by the post. But the years passed on. Saddened and sobered by the discipline of life, aged and worn, her thoughts turned once more to her quiet youth, and when at last a third child—” “There’s only two years between them!” Darsie frowned, but continued her narrative in a heightened voice— ”—Was laid in her arms, and her husband suggested ‘Ermyntrude’; she shuddered, and murmured softly, ‘Hannah—plain Hannah!’ and plain Hannah she has been ever since!” A splutter of laughter greeted this dénouement, for in truth Hannah Vernon was not distinguished for her beauty, being one of the plainest, and at the same time the most good-natured of girls. Lavender cried eagerly— “Go on! Make up some more,” but Clemence from the dignity of seventeen years felt bound to protest— “I don’t think you—ought! It’s not your business. Mrs Vernon’s a friend, and she wouldn’t be pleased. To talk behind her
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