The record-union., 1896-08-16
MY NAME CHILD.

was a few years older than she, and
had been drawn to her at first by her
lonliness and her unlikeness to the
other children. There was something
odd and morbid about the child that
made the playmates of her own age shy
of her, and their shyness in turn gave
her a sort of fear of them. She turned
to me as refuge from unimaginable
snares and dangers. She was an or
phan, and though she bore an English
surname, she owed her temperament
mostly, think, to her mothers Scandi-
navian origin. 1 could not discover
that she had any memory of having
lived in Morse surroundings, but it was
none the less certain that in England
she was stranger. Our ways never be-
came familiar to her; she was docile
and attentive about her lessons, but her
school days were nothing more than
somewhat painful probation to the free
life she looked forward to in imagina-
tion.
After I left school I saw Siegfried bui
rarely. though we kept up pretty reg
ular correspondence. When she left in
her turn l lost sight of her completely
for a time. l heard that she had gone
to Norway to live with some distant re-
lations, and as I was in Italy about that
time we were pretty widely separated.
Later we met in Paris, by accident.
Siegfried had grown into a beautiful,
slender woman, quite unlike my dark
eyed, timid little school friend; l
should scarcely have known her. When
/ said this she told me, smiling, that
she still had the same heart: and /
found, with something like wonder, that
she had indeed kept her old childish af-
fectiOn for mean affection that had al
most a touch of veneration in it.
After this, though we did not meet
again, we cOrresponded fitfully. There
had been a longer silence than usual
between us when I heard, indirectly, of
her marriage. l knew no details, ex-
cept that she had married an English
had gone to live in Yorkshire. / wrote
to an old address, on the chance that
my letter would reach her some time,
but many months went by without a
sign from her. When at length her let
ter came it was more intimate than any
/ had received since our old school days,
and after it there came many more, tell
ing me all that I ever knew of her life
among the dreary Yorkshire moors
give the extracts with no altera-
tions, only leaving out such parts as
were interesting to none but ourselves
"At last I am able to write to you,
my dear great friend, after weeks of
mere vague futile longing, when the
words would form over and over again
in my brain, but could never manage to
slip so far as the ends of my fingers, and
so OUT over the paper, to you.
AS you have guessed, 1 have been
very Ill. All, this England, this weary
land of yours! Surely all the heart
ache, the unsatisfied longing in it are
centered and focused in these gray
bleak hills, these trackless moors And
the people are like the country. True
and stanch and hearty when you know
them. my husband says, but they do not
smile easily. l feel, among them, like
a lame bird in a stone quarry
But what has that to do with my ill
ness? you will say. l think it was my
illness. l was frightened-like the old
school days-from the first. And when
l felt i'll 1 was afraid to get well again.
In the sick-room there is peace and
shelter.
But now it is different. A great hap
piness, a great thankfulness, fills my
heart. TWO joys came to me in my time
or weakness. Just when l needed 1t
most there came to me out of the land
OF nowhere, the message of my dear
great friend; and the old love, that had
been lying like a forgotten seed in the
rubbish heap Of my life, suddenly burst
into bloom, and filled all the air with
scent and color And at the same time.
cut of the land of nowhere, too, there
came little being, in herself able to
change the face of nature for me. So
this dreary world isaha bitable once more.
You have seemed to me, from the first,
to belong to each other. VIII you share
her with me? We have no church, my
husband and I, to baptize her into. so l
cannot ask you to be her godmothar
but will you have her as your name
child?' I know you will. l have not
waited to ask you. l wanted her to
have strong, beautiful, English name
think Margaret could live a calm
and peaceful life even in these bleak,
colorless stretches. 'Siegried has no
more substance than wreath of vapor,
caught on the nights overhanging the
ford.
DO l grow stronger? Oh, / am RI
dicUlously well again, and the little Mar
garet thriveS amazingly She is at pres
ent making Intellectual attempts to Dut
the pretty boots you sent her into her
mouth. When she does not succeed She
laughs! Isn't hers a splendid philoso-
ply? If one could always laugh over
ones failure.
My nurse is an IriShwoman. / find
her genial, Celtic ways a great relief
after the Yorkshire hardness When
our little Margaret smiles in her sleep
she says the fairies are whispering to
her Perhaps they are, but English
fairies are kind and will not frighten our
baby-not like the wicked Troll tales
that used to haunt and terrify ME O.
nights.
My husband? All, poor John. He
wanted son SO badly that / doubt if ne
is yet recOnciled to the blessing of a
daughter. OF course he is proud
think all men are proud of a first-born
child. But there is the name, the old
and honored name, to be handed down.
And the place goes with it, for the entail
is strict. John much diSlikeS his nephew.
the heir presumptive, or apparent, Or
whatever it is. AS for me-my little
girl is just Margaret to me, and 1 care
not at all that she will have no part in
handing down the name and the place.
II am so tired after a weari5ome
day But it will do me good to grumble
to you, and | know you will comfort us
me and our little Margaret.
Some of Johns people have been
here. Terrible people, with titles and
servants and carriaCeSi They mea,,t