“For many reasons. In the first place, it is no name of mine. My true baptismal name, unused for half a lifetime, would be strange to your ears, and indeed to my own now. But if, indeed, you list to please the wayward fancy of a lonely man, then call your boy for me by the name of the patriarch’s best loved son—the separate from his brethren, upon whom the blessing came—‘Joseph is a fruitful bough, a fruitful bough by a well, whose branches run over the wall. The archers have sorely grieved him, and shot at him, and hated him: but his bow abode in strength, and the arms of his hands were made strong by the hands of the mighty God of Jacob.’” “So be it then, with all my heart,” said Walter Grey; “and God add his blessing to the child. It is a name that I too have cause to remember with grateful love.” After a pause, he asked rather suddenly, “Father, do you ever revisit in dreams that far-distant land where you and I first saw each other’s faces?” “Indeed, Walter,” Fray Fernando answered, with a smile half bright, half sorrowful, “I dream of little else. Night after night I seem to gaze upon the snowy line of the Andes as we used to see them from Callao, or the grand peaks of crystal that pierce the sky of Cerro Blanco; or perchance I look down from the height on the lovely vale of Nasca winding far beneath. Sometimes I wander through those marvellous tropical forests, pushing my way amongst the thick shrubs and the tangled lianas, and gathering great white and purple flowers—dream-flowers, yet not more wonderful than those I have actually seen and touched. Anon we are floating over crystal seas, with the mild light of the Southern Cross shining in the far heavens above us. All is so real, so present, that I cannot choose but take it for a pledge that these eyes shall yet behold again that new, familiar world beyond the western wave. Yes, Walter, when the King comes, and this beautiful ruined earth is cleansed and renovated, and made fit for His throne and habitation, I dare to cherish a hope that my foot shall press those shores once more—that I shall walk there with—with—” But here his voice failed,—died away into that silence which is more eloquent than many words, and often like a fragrant balm preserves and consecrates our dearest names. After a pause of sympathy, Walter resumed—“There is much for the King to do when He comes.”