“No, Mother,” Advena agreed, “she knew better.”

They were all there in the kitchen, supporting their mother, and it seems an opportunity to name them.  Advena, the eldest, stood by the long kitchen table washing the breakfast cups in “soft” soap and hot water.  The soft soap—­Mrs Murchison had a barrelful boiled every spring in the back yard, an old colonial economy she hated to resign—­made a fascinating brown lather with iridescent bubbles.  Advena poured cupfuls of it from on high to see the foam rise, till her mother told her for mercy’s sake to get on with those dishes.  She stood before a long low window, looking out into the garden and the light, filtering through apple branches on her face showed her strongly featured and intelligent for fourteen.  Advena was named after one grandmother; when the next girl came Mrs Murchison, to make an end of the matter, named it Abigail, after the other.  She thought both names outlandish and acted under protest, but hoped that now everybody would be satisfied.  Lorne came after Advena, at the period of a naive fashion of christening the young sons of Canada in the name of her Governor-General.  It was a simple way of attesting a loyal spirit, but with Mrs Murchison more particular motives operated.  The Marquis of Lorne was not only the deputy of the throne, he was the son-in-law of a good woman of whom Mrs Murchison thought more, and often said it, for being the woman she was than for being twenty times a Queen; and he had made a metrical translation of the Psalms, several of which were included in the revised psalter for the use of the Presbyterian Church in Canada, from which the whole of Knox Church sang to the praise of God every Sunday.  These were circumstances that weighed with Mrs Murchison, and she called her son after the Royal representative, feeling that she was doing well for him in a sense beyond the mere bestowal of a distinguished and a euphonious name, though that, as she would have willingly acknowledged, was “well enough in its place.”

We must take this matter of names seriously; the Murchisons always did.  Indeed, from the arrival of a new baby until the important Sunday of the christening. nothing was discussed with such eager zest and such sustained interest as the name he should get—­there was a fascinating list at the back of the dictionary—­and to the last minute it was problematical.  In Stella’s case, Mrs Murchison actually changed her mind on the way to church; and Abby, who had sat through the sermon expecting Dorothy Maud, which she thought lovely, publicly cried with disappointment.  Stella was the youngest, and Mrs Murchison was thankful to have a girl at last whom she could name without regard to her own relations or anybody else’s.  I have skipped about a good deal, but I have only left out two, the boys who came between Abby and Stella.  In their names the contemporary observer need not be too acute to discover both an avowal and to some extent an enforcement of Mr Murchison’s political