One more scene—a more cheerful one we trust—and our story is ended. In a small, pleasant room, furnished with exquisite taste, half-buried in the crimson cushions of a luxurious chair, sat a young mother, and upon her lap lay her first born, a fair and delicate babe, whose tiny face seemed the miniature of the one that bent over it, save that the little rings that lay upon its forehead were of a darker hue. Very lovely was that young mother—more lovely than in the brightest days of her girlish beauty, as she reclined there in the simple, yet tasteful robe of a convalescent, her pale cheek half-shaded by the rich, brown curls that escaped from beneath her cap. Her eyes wandered often from the face of her babe to the door, and at length a glad smile sprang to her parted lips as she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. The door opened, and a fine-looking man, whose intellectual face bore the unmistakable seal of genius, entered, and exclaiming joyously—“What—you here, Elizabeth? I have no words to tell you how glad I am to see you in our little sanctum again, my own sweet wife.” He bent to kiss the lips that were raised lovingly to his. “And our precious little daughter, too—she is six weeks old to-day, is she not?”
“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.”
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BY ALICE B. NEAL.
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Yet it was with a deep groan that I settled myself to a—Jemima. Letter from Riccobocca to Lord L’Estrange.