that always made her lovely. And, gathering poor baby close, she went on her way like a modern Britomart, ready to redress the wrongs of any who had need of her.
As he led the slowly stepping horse along the quiet road, Mac could not help thinking that they looked a little like the Flight into Egypt: but he did not say so, being a reverent youth,—only glanced back now and then at the figure above him; for Rose had taken off her hat to keep the light from baby's eyes, and sat with the sunshine turning her uncovered hair to gold, as she looked down at the little creature resting on the saddle before her, with the sweet thoughtfulness one sees in some of Correggio's young Madonnas.
No one else saw the picture, but Mac long remembered it; and ever after there was a touch of reverence added to the warm affection he had always borne his cousin Rose.
"What is the child's name?" was the sudden question which disturbed a brief silence, broken only by the sound of pacing hoofs, the rustle of green boughs overhead, and the blithe carolling of birds.
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Mac, suddenly aware that he had fallen out of one quandary into another.
"Didn't you ask?"
"No: the mother called her 'Baby;' the old woman, 'Brat.' And that is all I know of the first name: the last is Kennedy. You can Christen her what you like."
