Sunday was beautiful. The air was full of fragrance; bloom of tree and shrub, pungent odors of growing evergreens, and the freshening breath of grassy fields. After a pleasant breakfast, the children were made ready for church. Sundays were always such enjoyable days with us! I don’t know quite what the charm was; but they seemed restful, and full of tender talking and sweet singing.
After Sunday school, in the afternoon, the children were catechized, and there was a short service.
Very few knew of the baby’s christening; so the congregation was not larger than usual. After the lesson, we went forward, mamma, Mrs. Whitcomb, baby, Mr. Duncan, and I. A sweet solemn service it was, baby being very good and quiet. Edith Duncan. The second name had been agreed upon in the morning, at Stephen’s request.
The children crowded around papa afterwards.
“I do not wonder that everybody loves him,” Mr. Duncan said, as we walked homeward. “And I feel as if I had a small claim upon him myself. I am a sort of brother to you now, Nelly.”
“Are you?” answered Nelly, with a roguish laugh. “I did not think it was so near a relation as that.”
“Perhaps it may be a grandfather, then,” was the grave reply.
“O, that’s splendid!” declared Tiny Tim, who had big ears. “For we never had a grandfather, you know, only—”
“Only what?”
“Your hair is not very white,” commented Tim, as if suspicious of so near a relationship with a young man.