"Yes; her papa and mine would hear of no other for her."
"I like to have mamma's name," said the child, in a pretty, modest way, looking up into his face. "Grandpa and papa call mamma Elsie, and me wee Elsie and little Elsie, and sometimes daughter. Grandpa calls mamma daughter too, but papa calls her wife. Mamma, has Uncle Harold seen baby?"
"My namesake! ah, I should like to see him."
"There is mammy on the porch now, with him in her arms," cried the child.
"Go, and tell her to bring him here, daughter," Elsie said; and the little girl hastened to obey.
It was a very fine babe, and Harold looked at it with interest.
"I am proud of my name-child," he said, turning to the mother with a gratified smile. "You and Mr. Travilla were very kind to remember me."
The latter, who had been engaged in the exchange of salutations with the others, hearing his name, now came up and took the hand of the invalid in his. He was much moved by the sad alteration in the young man, who, when last seen by him, was in high health and spirits—the full flush of early manhood's prime.
Taking a seat by his side, he inquired with kindly interest how he was, who was his physician, and if there had been any improvement in the case of late.
"Thank you, no; rather the reverse," Harold said, in answer to the last inquiry. "I am weaker than when I left the hospital."