If one has a fairy tale in mind, why then, of course, the more mystery the better; but when you have a story to tell about people who cannot fly from hill-top to hill-top, and who to live at all must have food more substantial than rose-leaves and honey-dew, why then, say I, the less mystery the better. Therefore, let me tell you at once that the Courage of this story is not at all the sort of thing you might at first imagine. Auburn-haired, brown-eyed, and rosy-cheeked was this particular Courage; in point of fact, as charming a little maiden as you would meet on a long day's journey, and with Courage for her name. An odd name no doubt you think it. Courage herself did not like it, but the suns of a half-dozen summers and winters had risen for the little lady in question before she could so much as lay claim to any name whatsoever. All that while she was simply known as Baby Masterson. Her father, Hugh Masterson, was foreman in a machine shop over on the west side of the city, and “a very queer man,” people said. Probably they were right about it. He was unquestionably a very clever man, and queerness and cleverness seem to go hand-in-hand the world over. He was the author of at least three successful inventions, but, as often happens, others made more money out of them than he. Hugh, nevertheless, did not seem inclined to grumble at this state of affairs. Having a wife whom he loved devotedly and a comfortable home of his own, he felt thoroughly contented and happy. Then when, one bright June morning, Hugh found himself the father of a lovely baby daughter, happy was no name for it, and he was quite beside himself with joy. But, sadly enough, the joy was soon over, for scarcely three months after the baby-life came into the little home the mother-life went out of it, and then it seemed to poor Hugh as though his heart would break. He hired a kind-hearted woman named Mary Duff to care for his baby, and plunged harder than ever into his work, hoping by delving away at all sorts of difficult problems to grow less mindful of his great sorrow; but do what he would, there was always a sense of irreparable loss hanging over him. However, between his work and his sorrow he did often succeed in altogether forgetting his baby. Still the little daughter grew and flourished, apparently none the worse for this neglect. Mary Duff was love and tenderness itself, and it were well for the children if every mother in name were just such a mother at heart. But at last there came a time when Hugh Masterson could no longer fail to notice his baby's charms. She had taken it into her wise little head to grow prettier and prettier, and more and more cunning with every day, till there was no more forgetting of her possible; and first thing her father knew, he found himself thinking of her right in the midst of his work, and then hurrying home through the crowds of laboring people at night, fairly longing for a sight of her. And so it happened that the little girl grew to fill a larger and still larger place In his life, till on her sixth birthday he decided that she really ought to have a name, that little woman beginning strongly to resent the fact that she was known only as Baby Masterson to the small world in which she lived. So when Sunday came, Hugh carried her in his arms up to St. Paul's to be christened. But the name that he gave her! Well, it was not in the least like other little girls' names, as you know. No wonder Mary Duff, who was standing godmother, was more than surprised when she heard it, having simply taken for granted that Baby would be named for her mother. Baby herself was naturally greatly mystified at the whole proceeding.