she feared "it would look odd, and the world might misconstrue my father's absence,--had not she better put off the christening?" "My dear," answered my father, "it will be my duty, by and by, to christen the boy,--a duty not done in a day. At present, I have no doubt that the bishop will do very well without me. Let the day stand, or if you put it off, upon my word and honor I believe that the wicked auctioneer will put off the book-sale also. Of one thing I am quite sure, that the sale and the christening will take place at the same time." There was no getting over this; but I am certain my dear mother had much less heart than before in uncovering the chintz chairs in the best drawing-room. Five years later this would not have happened. My mother would have kissed my father and said, "Stay," and he would have stayed. But she was then very young and timid; and he, wild man, not of the woods, but the cloisters, not yet civilized into the tractabilities of home. In short, the post-chaise was ordered and the carpetbag packed. "My love," said my mother, the night before this Hegira, looking up from her work, "my love, there is one thing you have quite forgot to settle,- -I beg pardon for disturbing you, but it is important!--baby's name: sha' n't we call him Augustine?" "Augustine," said my father, dreamily,--"why that name's mine." "And you would like your boy's to be the same?" "No," said my father, rousing himself. "Nobody would know which was which. I should catch myself learning the Latin accidence, or playing at marbles. I should never know my own identity, and Mrs. Primmins would be giving me pap." My mother smiled; and putting her hand, which was a very pretty one, on my father's shoulder, and looking at him tenderly, she said: "There's no fear of mistaking you for any other, even your son, dearest. Still, if you prefer another name, what shall it be?" "Samuel," said my father. "Dr. Parr's name is Samuel." "La, my love! Samuel is the ugliest name--" My father did not hear the exclamation; he was again deep in his books. Presently he started up: "Barnes says Homer is Solomon. Read Omeros backward, in the Hebrew manner--" "Yes, my love," interrupted my mother. "But baby's Christian name?" "Omeros--Soreino--Solemo--Solomo!" "Solomo,--shocking!" said my mother. "Shocking indeed," echoed my father; "an outrage to common-sense." Then, after glancing again over his books, he broke out musingly: "But, after all, it is nonsense to suppose that Homer was not settled till his time." "Whose?" asked my mother, mechanically. My father lifted up his finger. My mother continued, after a short pause., "Arthur is a pretty name. Then there 's William--Henry--Charles Robert. What shall it be, love?" "Pisistratus!" said my father (who had hung fire till then), in a tone of contempt,--"Pisistratus, indeed!"