Cousin Maude | Page 5

that it was left by will to you. May I, as
your to-morrow's husband, ask how much you received for it?" And he
unbent his dignity so far as to wind his arm around her waist.
But the arm was involuntarily withdrawn when, with her usual
frankness, Matty replied; "I received a thousand dollars, but there were
debts to be paid, so that I had only five hundred left, and this I made
over to my daughter to be used for her education."
Dr. Kennedy did not say that he was disappointed, and as Matty was
not much of a physiognomist she did not read it in his face, and she
continued: "Janet will remain here a while, to arrange matters, before
joining me in my new home. She wished me to leave my little girl to
come with her, but I can't do that. I must have my child with me.
You've never seen her, have you? I'll call her at once." And stepping to
the door she bade Janet bring "Maude" into the parlor.
"Maude!" How Dr. Kennedy started at the mention of a name which
drove all thoughts of the five hundred dollars from his mind. There was
feeling--passion--everything, now, in his cold gray eye, but quickly
recovering his composure, he said calmly: "Maude, Matty-- Maude, is
that your child's name?"
"Why, yes," she answered laughingly. "Didn't you know it before? "
"How should I," he replied, "when in your letters you have always
called her 'daughter'? But has she no other name? She surely was not

baptized Maude?"
Ere Mrs. Remington could speak, the sound of little pattering feet was
heard in the hall without, and in a moment Maude Remington stood
before her stepfather-elect, looking, as that rather fastidious gentleman
thought, more like a wild gipsy than the child of a civilized mother. She
was a fat, chubby child, not yet five years old; black-eyed, black-haired,
black-faced, with short, thick curls, which, damp with perspiration,
stood up all over her head, giving her a singular appearance. She had
been playing in the brook, her favorite companion, and now, with little
spatters of mud ornamenting both face and pantalets, her sun-bonnet
hanging down her back, and her hands full of pebble-stones, she stood
furtively eyeing the stranger, whose mental exclamation was: "Mercy,
what a fright!"
"Maude!" exclaimed the distressed Mrs. Remington, "where have you
been? Go at once to Janet, and have your dress changed; then come
back to me."
Nothing loath to join Janet, whose company was preferable to that of
the stranger, Maude left the room, while Dr. Kennedy, turning to Mrs.
Remington, said: "She is not at all like you, my dear."
"No," answered the lady; "she is like her father in everything; the same
eyes, the same hair, and--"
She was going on to say more, when the expression of Dr. Kennedy's
face stopped her, and she began to wonder if she had displeased him.
Dr. Kennedy could talk for hours of "the late Mrs. Kennedy,"
accompanying his words with long-drawn sighs, and enumerating her
many virtues, all of which he expected to be improved upon by her
successor; but he could not bear to hear the name of Harry Remington
spoken by one who was to be his wife, and he at once changed the
subject of Maude's looks to her name, which he learned was really
Matilda. She had been called Maude, Matty said, after one who was
once a very dear friend both of herself and her husband.
"Then we will call her Matilda," said he, "as it is a maxim of mine

never to spoil children by giving them pet names."
"But you call your daughter Nellie," suggested the little widow, and in
her soft, blue eye there shone a mischievous twinkle, as if she fancied
she had beaten him with his own argument.
But if she thought to convince that most unreasonable man, she was
mistaken. What he did was no criterion for others, unless he chose that
it should be so, and he answered, "That is sister Kelsey's idea, and as
she is very fond of Nellie I do not interfere. But, seriously, Matty,
darling,"--and he drew her to his side, with an uncommon show of
fondness,--" I cannot call your daughter Maude; I do not like the name,
and it is a maxim of mine, that if a person dislikes a name, 'tis an easy
matter to dislike the one who bears it."
Had Mrs. Remington cared less for him than she did, she might have
wondered how many more disagreeable maxims he had in store. But
love is blind, or nearly so; and when, as if to make amends for his
remarks, he caressed her with an unusual degree of tenderness, the
impulsive woman felt that