"I was not baptized Patience, Madam. My father was a Scottish Covenanter, and he named me, his first-born child, 'The-Patient-Waiting-for-Christ.'" "What a strange name!" involuntarily exclaimed Celia. "Yes, Madam; very strange, I doubt not, to such as have never met with our Puritan practice of Scripture-text names. I have known divers such." "Do the Puritans, then, commonly give their children such names?" "Very often, Madam. I had an aunt who was called 'We-Love-Him-Because-He-First-Loved-Us.'" "They called her Love for short, I suppose?" "Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her calm, passive manner. Celia thought this very odd indeed, and turned the conversation, lest she should get comic associations with texts of Scripture of which she could not afterwards divest herself. She wondered that Patient did not feel the ludicrous strangeness of the practice, not knowing that all sense of the ludicrous had been left out of Patient's composition. "And how long have you lived in France, Patient?" "Since I was of the age of twenty years, Madam Celia." "You know my name, then?" said Celia, smiling. "I know you, Madam, much better than you know me. I have borne you about in mine arms as a babe of a few hours old. And just now, when I saw you, you looked to mine eyes as the very image from the dead of my dear Miss Magdalene." "Patient! do you mean my mother?" "Yes Madam. I ask your pardon for calling her such a name, but it ever sounds more natural to mine ear. She was my Lady Ingram for so short a time, and I knew her as Miss Magdalene when she was but a wee bonnie bairn." "What was her name?" "Magdalene Grey, Madam. She was the Minister's daughter at the Manse of Lauchie, where my father and I dwelt." "Then she was a Scottish lady?" "Yes, Madam, at least she was born in Scotland, and her mother was Scottish. Her father, Mr. Grey, was English by descent, though his fathers had dwelt in Scotland for three generations afore him." "And where did my father meet with her? He was not Scottish?" "He was not, Madam. And I will tell you all the story if it please you; but will you not dress now?" "You can tell me while I comb my hair, Patient. I want to know all about it." "May I do it for you, Madam? I can speak now, if that be your pleasure; but 'tis almost necessary that I tell mine own story in hers." "Will it pain you, Patient?" asked Celia, kindly. "No, Madam; I am far past that," answered Patient, in her calm, passionless voice. "Then please to let me hear it."