“Not nearly so well as Christine.”--It was delightful--so intimate, so confidential--thus to be allowed to speak her name in her presence.--“Christine,” lingering upon the word, “Christine is the prettiest name I know.” “Your name,”--shyly--“your name is Elias, isn't it?” she asked. “Yes, Elias. There have never been any names but three among the men of my family--Ephraim, Abraham, and Elias. My father's name was Abraham, his father's Elias, and so on back. The younger son, when there has been one, has always been called Ephraim. Old-fashioned, Bible names, you see.” “I had a second-cousin named Ephraim,” old Redwood volunteered. Christine said, “I'm glad they didn't name you Ephraim or Abraham. But I like Elias.” “Do you, indeed? Most people find it exceedingly ugly. When I was a boy, it used to make me quite unhappy. My playmates used to tease me about it.” “How heartless of them! And how stupid! For it isn't a bit ugly. It's strong. It has so much character, so much individuality--Elias.” If it had been agreeable to be allowed to pronounce her name, it was trebly agreeable to hear her pronounce and applaud his own. Indeed, the quality of the name hereby underwent a considerable transformation, and acquired a euphony to his ears that it had never possessed before. “Speaking of names,” continued Christine, “do you remember those names that Rossetti mentions in 'The Blessed Damozel,' and calls sweet symphonies?” “I think Rosalys was one, and Gertrude another, weren't they? There were five altogether.” “Magdalen was a third. But the book is right there on the table. Let's look and see.” Elias got the book, sought the place, and read aloud: “'--Whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys.'” Christine said, “I wonder, Mr. Bacharach, whether you will do me a kindness?” “You need not wonder. Of course I will, and gladly. What is it?” “Read the whole poem aloud to me.” Elias read it to her. He read it with a good deal of fervor. To be permitted to read aloud to her a poem fraught with intense passion like “The Blessed Damozel,” was the next best thing to being permitted to talk to her of his own love. And all the while, as he was reading, he was conscious of a dainty, subtle fragrance being wafted toward him from where his auditor was seated, and penetrating to his heart, and making it thrill. And whenever he lifted his eyes from off the page, they encountered hers, in the depths of which he could see burning a pale, strange fire; and again his heart vibrated with a keen, exquisite thrill. When he had done, she exclaimed, softly but earnestly, “Oh, how beautifully you read it! You made me _thrill_ so here,” placing her hand upon her breast. At that he experienced the keenest and the most exquisite thrill of all. Pretty soon. “Tell me,” she went on, “which one of Rossetti's poems do you like best of all?”