She could laugh now, and laugh she would, when Graham, with a trepidation never felt in battle, took the tiny morsel of humanity, and paraded up and down the library. Lying back on the sofa in one of her dainty wrappers, she would cry, "Look at him, papa; look at that grim cavalryman, and think of his leading a charge!"
"Well, Gracie, dear," the old major would reply, chuckling at his well-worn joke, "the colonel was only a cavalryman, you know. He's not up in infantry tactics."
One morning Grandma Mayburn opened a high conclave in regard to the baby's name, and sought to settle the question in advance by saying, "Of course it should be Grace."
"Indeed, madam," differed the major, gallantly, "I think it should be named after its grandmother."
Grace lifted her eyes inquiringly to her husband, who stood regarding what to him was the Madonna and child.
"I have already named her," he said, quietly.
"You, you!" cried his aunt, brusquely. "I'd have you know that this is an affair for grave and general deliberation."
"Alford shall have his way," said the mother, with quiet emphasis, looking down at the child, while pride and tenderness blended sweetly in her face.
"Her name is Hilda, in memory of the noblest man and dearest friend I have ever known."
Instantly she raised her eyes, brimming with tears, to his, and faltered, "Thank you, Alford"; and she clasped the child almost convulsively to her breast, proving that there was one love which no other could obliterate.