I think maybe she'd be pleased. She always did worship Jim. That's the
reason she hates me so," sighed Sally.

It was the last of March before the longed-for baby came. Never did
baby have a better welcome. It was as if three mothers had awaited his
coming. Hetty's happiness was far greater than Sally's, and Nan's was
hardly less. Hetty had been astonished at herself for the passionate
yearning she had felt towards the little unborn creature from the
beginning, and, when she took the little fellow in her arms, her first
thought was, "Dear me! if mothers feel any more than I feel now, how can
they bear it?" Turning to Jim, she exclaimed, "Oh, Jim! I'm sure you
ought to be happy now. We'll name this little chap after you, James
Little, Junior."

"No!" said Jim, doggedly, "I'll not hand down that name. The sooner it
is forgotten the better." All the sunshine and peace of his new home had
not been enough wholly to brighten or heal Jim's wounded spirit. Hetty
had found herself baffled at every turn by a sort of inertia of sadness,
harder to deal with than any other form of mental depression.

"You're very wrong, Jim," replied Hetty, earnestly. "The name is your
own to make or to mar, and you ought to be proud to hand it down."

"You can't judge about that, Hetty," said Jim. "It stands to reason that
you can't have any idea about the feeling of being disgraced. I don't
believe a man can ever shake it off in this world: if he can in any
other, I have my doubts. I don't know what the orthodox people ever
wanted to get up their theory of a hell for. A man can be a worse hell
to himself, than any hell they can invent to put him into. I know that."