Slowly and sadly he walked away, going back to his home, where, in a luxuriously furnished chamber, on a couch whose silken hangings swept the floor, lay his wife, and near her his infant daughter, that day four weeks of age. As yet she had no name, and when the night had closed upon them, and it was dark within the room, Graham Thornton drew his chair to the side of his wife, and in low, subdued tones, told her of the fair young girl that day buried from his sight. Helen was his wife, a gentle, faithful wife, and he could not tell her how much he had loved Maggie Lee, and that but for his foolish pride she would perhaps at that moment have been where Helen was, instead of sleeping in her early grave. No, he could not tell her this, but he told her Maggie had been very dear to him, and that he feared it was for the love of him that she had died. ‘I wronged her, Nellie, darling,’ he said, smoothing the golden tresses which lay upon the pillow. ‘I broke her heart, and now that she is gone I would honour her memory by calling our first-born daughter Maggie Lee. ’Tis a beautiful name,’ he continued, ‘and you will not refuse my request.’ There was much of pride in Helen Thornton’s nature, and she did refuse, for days and even weeks; but when she saw the shadows deepened on the brow of her husband, who would stand for hours looking out through the open window towards the valley where slept the village dead, and when the mother, in pity of her son, joined also in the request, she yielded; and, as if the sacrifice were accepted and the atonement good, the first smile which ever dimpled the infant’s cheek, played on its mouth, as with its large, strange, bright eyes fixed upon its father’s face, it was baptized ‘Maggie Lee.’ * * * * *