Olive announced that she had taken a cottage in the country close to where her people lived, and that Sylvius or Sylvia Rose was to be born there; she thought it was right. "I don't know why childbirth should be more moral in the country," Sylvia said. "Oh, it's nothing to do with morals; it's on account of baby's health. You will come and stay with me, won't you?" In March, therefore, Sylvia went down to Warwickshire with Olive, much to the gratification of Mr. Fanshawe. It was a close race whether he would be a grandfather or an author first, but in the end Mr. Fanshawe had the pleasure of placing a copy of his work on Warwickshire worthies in the hands of the monthly nurse before she could place in his arms a grandchild. Three days later Olive brought into the world a little girl and a little boy. Jack was acting in Dundee. The problem of nomenclature was most complicated. Olive had to think it all out over again from the beginning. Jack had to be consulted by telegram about every change, and on occasions where accuracy was all-important, the post-office clerks were usually most careless. For instance, Mr. Fanshawe thought it would be charming to celebrate the forest of Arden by calling the children Orlando and Rosalind; Jack thereupon replied: Do not like Rosebud. What will boy be called. Suggest Palestine. First name arrived Ostend. If Oswald no. "Palestine!" exclaimed Olive. "Obviously Valentine," said Sylvia. "But look here, why not Sylvius for the boy and Rose for the girl? 'Rose Airdale, all were thine!'" When several more telegrams had been exchanged to enable Olive, in Warwickshire, to be quite sure that Jack, by this time in Aberdeen, had got the names right, Sylvius and Rose were decided upon, though Mr. Fanshawe advocated Audrey for the girl with such pertinacity that he even went as far as to argue with his daughter on the steps of the font. Indeed, as Sylvia said afterward, if the clergyman had not been so deaf, Rose would probably be Audrey at this moment. On the afternoon of the christening Sylvia received a telegram. "Too late," she said, with a laugh, as she tore it open. "He can't change his mind now." But the telegram was signed "Beardmore" and asked Sylvia to come at once to London because Mrs. Gainsborough was very ill. When she arrived at Mulberry Cottage, on a fine morning in early June, Mrs. Beardmore, whom Sylvia had never seen, was gravely accompanying two other elderly women to the garden door. "She's not dead?" Sylvia cried. The three friends shook their heads and sighed. "Not yet, poor soul," said the thinnest, bursting into tears. This must be Mrs. Ewings. "I'm just going to send another doctor," said the most majestic, which must be Mrs. Marsham. Mrs. Beardmore said nothing, but she sniffed and led the way toward the house. Mrs. Marsham and Mrs. Ewings went off together.