recalled of her mother's childhood.

"All her old playthings are up in the garret," he said, as they rose
from the table. "I'll have them brought down to-morrow. There's a doll
I brought her from New Orleans once when she was about your size. No
telling what it looks like now, but it was a beauty when it was new."

Lloyd clapped her hands and spun around the room like a top.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came!" she exclaimed for the third time. "What did
she call the doll, gran'fathah, do you remembah?"

"I never paid much attention to such things," he answered, "but I
do remember the name of this one, because she named it for her
mother,--Amanthis."

"Amanthis," repeated the child, dreamily, as she leaned against his
knee. "I think that is a lovely name, gran'fathah. I wish they had
called me that." She repeated it softly several times. "It sounds like
the wind a-blowin' through white clovah, doesn't it?"

"It is a beautiful name to me, my child," answered the old man, laying
his hand tenderly on her soft hair, "but not so beautiful as the woman
who bore it. She was the fairest flower of all Kentucky. There never was
another lived as sweet and gentle as your Grandmother Amanthis."

He stroked her hair absently, and gazed into the fire. He scarcely
noticed when she slipped away from him.

She buried her face a moment in the bowl of pink roses. Then she went