paper that came with each six months' money," he answered,
testily. "That's the only reason I know."

"Was I baptised by that name?" she asked.

He moved uneasily.

"You were never baptised."

"Never baptised!" She echoed the words despairingly,--and then was
silent for a minute's space. "Could you not have done that much
for me?" she asked, plaintively, at last--"Would it have been
impossible?"

He was vaguely ashamed. Her eyes, pure as a young child's, were
fixed upon him in appealing sorrow. He began to feel that he had
done her a grievous wrong, though he had never entirely realised
it till now. He answered her with some hesitation and an effort at
excuse.

"Not impossible--no,--maybe I could have baptised you myself if I
had thought about it. 'Tis but a sprinkle of water and 'In the Name
of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.' But somehow I never worried
my head--for as long as you were a baby I looked for the man who
brought you day after day, and in my own mind left all that sort
of business for him to attend to--and when he didn't come and you
grew older, it fairly slipped my remembrance altogether. I'm not
fond of the Church or its ways,--and you've done as well without
baptism as with it, surely. Innocent is a good name for you, and
fits your case. For you're innocent of the faults of your parents