took the child's hand and laid his head on the coverlet. It seemed to
stop the fast going spirit for a moment, and the other little thin
hand wandered to the gray head and nestled there, and once more the
weak voice said "Mady." As I softly closed the door, I could hear the
poor old Major, between his sobs, repeating over and over, "Oh, my
little one! my little one!"

The next night several of us went to the Ladies' Parlor to set up with
baby. At the head of the little coffin sat the Major. He was in full
evening dress--none of us had seen him in evening dress before--and
in his lapel was a bouquet of white flowers, evidently arranged by
himself. He looked years older; indeed, about all there was left of
his old look was the patient gentleness that had won us all. In the
coffin, in the little hand, was another bouquet of white flowers, as
awkwardly arranged as the one the Major wore. We did not need to be
told where it came from. Always shy, he was even more so that night,
from the unaccustomed duty he seemed struggling to perform. As the
boarders dropped in, to look at the child, he seemed glad of the
opportunity to go up again and look into the coffin, but he never went
by himself. He had nothing to say, but if spoken to, replied with his
never-failing sweetness of manner. Often during that night he was out
for water, but those of us who saw his wet lashes, knew what took him
out. Towards morning a lady watcher found lying on the centre table
a broken doll which had belonged to the little one and which she had
named after the "Mady." The Major went out quickly and came back no
more.

At the funeral next day it looked to us, though the parents of the
little one were there, as if the chief mourner was not, for the Major
was absent. Indeed, he was not at the hotel during the day, and it was