When I was a baby, I would not go to sleep unless she walked about with me, so (though walking was bad for her) I got my own way, and had it afterwards.
With one exception.

She would never tell me about my godfather.

I asked once, and she was so distressed that I was glad to promise never to speak of him again.

But I only thought of him the more, though all I knew about him was his portrait--such a fine fellow--and that he had the same swaggering, ridiculous name as mine.
How my father allowed me to be christened Bayard I cannot imagine.

But I was rather proud of it at one time--in the days when I wore long curls, and was so accustomed to hearing myself called "a perfect picture," and to having my little sayings quoted by my mother and her friends, that it made me miserable if grown-up people took the liberty of attending to anything but me.