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the inner chambers of the heart.
It was not difficult to read the secrets laid away in store-house of memory, or to fancy the story of her life — a life of disappointed ambition, of some happiness, and much pain.
The baby was a wee bit of a thing, dressed in white, very quiet, and, during the ceremony, rolled his big black eyes around in wonder at the strange scene.
Dr. James A Harrold officiated, Rev. Mr. Cameron, of Maryland, stood as god-father, and the little boy was christened Arthur de Beauregard.
The scene was an interesting one, and was a pleasing relief to the routine of our daily life.
Baby bears the honors of his new name very quietly, and crows all day from his couch on the balcony, sucking a gold pencil, the sponsorial gift of his god-father, while we, like old babitue at the spring, who know as little about tending babies as of calculating an eclipse, smoke our cigars beside him, and watch his infant motions as if he belonged to us all.
There is nothing new in t