’And what’s the boy’s name to be?  Not Belraven, I conclude, like my unfortunate grandson—­Maurice, I hope.’

’No; the precedent of his namesake would be too dangerous.  I believe he is to be Edmund Ulick.  Don’t take it as too personal, Ulick, for it was the name of our mutual connexion.’

’I take the personal part though, Maurice; and thank you, said Albinia, and Mr. Ferrars looked more happy and joyous than any time since his wife’s health had begun to fail.  Always cheerful, and almost always taking matters up in the most lively point of view, it was only by comparison that want of spirits in him could be detected; and it was chiefly by the vanishing of a certain careworn, anxious expression about his eyes, and by the ring of his merry laugh, that Albinia knew that he thought better of his wife’s state than for the last five or six years.

Albinia and Ulick drove off at six o’clock on a lovely summer Sunday morning, with Maurice between them in a royal state of felicity.  That long fresh drive, past summer hay-fields sleeping in their silver bath of dew, and villages tardily awakening to the well-earned Sunday rest, was not the least pleasant part of the day; and yet it was completely happy, not even clouded by one outbreak of Master Maurice.  Luckily for him, Mary had a small class, who absorbed her superabundant love of rule; and little Alby was a fair-haired, apple-cheeked maiden of five, who awoke both admiration and chivalry, and managed to coquet with him and Ulick both at once, so that Willie had no disrespect to his sisters to resent.

He was exemplary at church, well-behaved at dinner, and so little on his mamma’s mind, that she had a delightful renewal of her acquaintance with the Sunday-school, and a leisurable gossip with Mrs. Reid and the two Miss Reids, collectively and individually; but the best of all was a long quiet tete-a-tete with Winifred.

After the evening service, Mr. Ferrars himself carried his newly-christened boy back to the mother, and paused that his sister might come with him, and they might feel like the old times, when the three had been alone together.

‘Yes,’ said Winifred, when he had left them, ’it is very pretty playing at it; but one cannot be the same.’

‘Nor would one exactly wish it,’ said Albinia; ’though I think you are going to be more the same.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Winifred; ’the worst of being ill is that it does wear one’s husband so!  When he came in, and tried to make me fancy we were gone back to Willie’s time, I could not help thinking how different you both looked.’

‘Well, so much the better and more respectable,’ said Albinia.  ’You know I always wanted to grow old; I don’t want to stop short like your sister Anne, who looks as much the child of the house as ever.

’I wish you had as few cares as Anne.  Look; I declare that’s a grey hair!’

’I know.  I like it; now Sophy is growing young, and I’m growing old, it is all correct.’