“Yes, Arthur—and it is about time she had a name, I think. What shall we call her?” The young husband paused for a moment, and tears gathered in his proud, dark eyes as he replied—“Let her name be Lily Grey, dearest. Had you never borne that name perhaps I could not call you mine now.” And Arthur Talmadge—no longer poor and unappreciated, toiling for his daily bread—but Arthur Talmadge, the courted and honored artist, whose fame was in all the land, pressed his wife fondly to his bosom! * * * * * =“SETTLING TO A JEMIMA.”= =SUGGESTED BY “MY NOVEL.”= =BY ALICE B. NEAL.= Yet it was with a deep groan that I settled myself to a—Jemima. _Letter from Riccobocca to Lord L’Estrange._ “And how do you like ‘My Novel,’ Frank?” It was a very natural question under the circumstances. We had just finished two excellent cigars. St. Julian had an exquisite choice in the article, which I could fully appreciate. The fire was shining glowing red through the polished bars of the grate—the curtains were down, and the gas lighted. The library-table was strewn with papers, and new publications, and among the rest “Blackwood,” in its unpretending brown cover, laid half open, and the paper-cutter thrust between the leaves. That knife was a great favorite with my friend, who had brought it from Switzerland. The blade was of burnished silver, the handle the delicate foot of a chamois, preserved most perfectly. _I_ might have hunted from Paris to Berne without lighting upon it; but these things always seemed to fall in the way of St. Julian, as if by the magnetic attraction of his refined taste. The library could scarcely have been dignified by that title. It was a small room, suited to my friend’s not over ample means, and fitted up with more of the bachelor air than the lounging-rooms of most Benedicts contrive to retain. Book-cases and tables of black walnut, the books being more valuable as rare editions, than from the extent of the collection, a few excellent engravings, and one beautiful head in oil, completed the appointments. We had dined, and nuts and wine were on the table before us. Mrs. St. Julian had absented herself on the plea of nursery engagements, possibly she thought we might like to chat without even her gentle restraint, of our old bachelor days. Considerate woman! Would that more of my married friends had possessed themselves of such a household treasure! “How do I like Bulwer’s last? Just the question you asked years ago, St. Julian, in the days of Pelham and Earnest Maltravers, when maiden aunts held up their hands in pious horror at the mere mention of his name, and young ladies doted on the “dear wicked books,” just because they were proscribed.” “Exactly,” nodded St. Julian, knocking the silvery ashes from the tip of his Figaro.