"He has some curious notions about that baby, mother," she said afterwards. "I can see it in all he says. Everyone mightn't understand it. I'm not sure I do myself, but he has a big, kind heart, that Tom de Willoughby, a big, kind heart." She understood more clearly the workings of the big, kind heart before he left them the next morning. At night after she had put her child to sleep, she joined him on the front porch, where he sat in the moonlight, and there he spoke more fully to her. He had seated himself upon the steps of the porch and wore a deeper reflective air, as he played with a spray of honeysuckle he had broken from its vine. She drew up her rocking-chair and sat down near him. "I actually believe you are thinking of that baby now," she said, with a laugh. "You really look as if you were." "Well," he admitted, "the fact is that's just what I was doing--thinking of her." "Well, and what were you thinking?" "I was thinking--" holding his spray of honeysuckle between his thumb and forefinger and looking at it in an interested way, "I was thinking about what name I should give her." "Oh!" she said, "she hasn't any name?" "No," Tom answered, without removing his eyes from his honeysuckle, "she hasn't any name yet." "Well," she exclaimed, "they were queer people." There was a moment's silence which she spent in looking curiously both at him and his honeysuckle. "What was her mother's name?" she asked at last. "I don't know." Mrs. Rutherford sat up in her chair. "You don't know!" "She was dying when I saw her first, and I never thought of asking." "But her father?" "I didn't think of asking that either, and nobody knew anything of them. I suppose he was not in the frame of mind to think of such things himself. It was all over and done with so soon. He went away as soon as she was buried." Mrs. Rutherford sank back into her chair. "It's the strangest story I ever heard of in my life," she commented, with a sigh of amazement. "The man must have been crazed with grief. I suppose he was very fond of his wife?" "I suppose so," said Tom. There was another pause of a few moments, and from the thoughts with which they occupied it Mrs. Rutherford roused herself with a visible effort. "Well," she said, cheerily, "let it be a pretty name." "Yes," answered Tom, "it must be a pretty one." He turned the bit of honeysuckle so that the moonlight fell on its faintly tinted flower. It really seemed as if he felt he should get on better for having it to look at and refer to. "I want it to be a pretty name," he went on, "and I've thought of a good many that sounded well enough, but none of them seemed exactly to hit my fancy in the right way until I thought of one that came into my mind a few moments ago as I sat here. It has a pleasant meaning--I don't know that there's anything in that, of course; but I've got a sort of whim about it. I suppose it's a whim. What do you think--" looking very hard at the honeysuckle, "of Felicia?"