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 baby, asleep. The little girl slept deeply with her hair tousled and her long lashes in dark, orderly line upon the clear, living pink of her cheek. One forearm was uncovered, a lovely, round perfect little arm and hand.

The sun stole into the room and now cast a bold shaft across the baby's bed and the child seemed to feel it, though it did not touch her till she turned her head so that the sun glowed bronze and gold red upon her hair, as upon that morning in class, it had made glorious the hair of her mother.

Alice caught her breath and David heard her. He stepped back to her and clasped her hand. "Did you see?" he whispered.

"Yes. She goes to sunshine like her mother."

"She loved the sun," David said. "Just sun and water and things like that made her happy. Sarah," he said, "she'll be the same."

"Sarah!" Alice repeated. "She's no Sarah, David. She's Fidelia, Fidelia! Every time you look at her, every time you hear her voice, you'll think it, and so will I. She's Fidelia! We'll say it, and call her Fidelia from now on."

"Alice, can you bear to?"

"Bear it, my boy!—Fidelia, the only Fidelia who ever could take you away from me, is gone, David; and Fidelia who will hold us together is come."

He closed his wife in his arms.

"No wife in the world could love her as you, Alice."

He released her and stepped to the bed again. "You pretty little pagan," he said within himself. "You and I, we'll play!"

He went with Alice to their room where was left a