thing of both these motives; and in this belief he was content.
Lydia was a mother; the fact moved him to a gentler tenderness. There followed with this a melancholy reflection; Stewart and Lydia were living life in its fullness; he was not. The man who had no wife to cherish, no children to train and love, was a petty, pinching fellow; inglorious middle age would wait upon his wasted youth, and would in turn be followed by lonely and unblest senility. Hitherto there had been a certain pride with which Floyd had measured himself up to the stature of one whom Lydia might have loved; now he was of a humble mind.
Colonel Halket was mildly interested at hearing the news from Floyd.
"We'll have Dunbar over here every day now," he grumbled, "telling us what it's like to be a grandfather. He'll kick up more row about it in a week than I've done in all the years I've been one. He's got no sense of proportion, that man. Boy or girl, did you say?"
"Boy," Floyd answered. "You'll be glad to hear, I think," he added modestly, "that they're going to name the baby Halket."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Colonel Halket, with real interest. "Well, well! Of course I always knew George Dunbar was an admirer of mine, but I certainly would n't have expected him to make his daughter name her child for me! Well, well!" The old man laughed with the most candid pleasure. "Dunbar's a good fellow; he certainly is,—and I'll remember it."
"I'm afraid I didn't explain," Floyd said. "The baby's named Floyd Halket Lee; I guess Stewart and Lydia did it without consulting Mr. Dunbar."
The satisfaction had left Colonel Halket's face. He said with sharpness,—
"Why did n't you make it clear—instead of leaving me to think?—"
