hand?"

"Truly,--really. He lives in Albany. He is the son of a queer man, and
is something of a humorist himself. I have seen one of his sons. He has
two. One's name is Paraclete, and the other Preserved. His daughter is
pretty, very, and her name is Deliverance. They call her Del, for short.
They do, on my word! Worse than Delphine, is it not?"

"Why, don't you like my name?" stammered I, with astonishment.

"Yes, very well. I don't care much about names. But I can tell you,
Uncle Zabdiel and Aunt Jerusha, 'from whom I have expectations,' Del,
think it is 'just about the poorest kind of a name that ever a girl
had.' And our Cousin Abijah thought you were named Delilah, and that
it was a good match for Sampson! I rectified him there; but he still
insists on your being called 'Finy,' in the family, to distinguish you
from the Midianitish woman."

"And so Uncle _Zabdiel_ thinks I have a poor name?" said I, laughing
heartily. "The shield looks neither gold nor silver, from which side
soever we gaze. But I think _he_ might put up with _my_ name!"

My husband never knew exactly what I was laughing at. And why should he?
I was fast overcoming my weakness about names, and thinking they were
nothing, compared to things, after all.

When our laugh (for his was sympathetic) had subsided into a quiet
cheerfulness, he said, again holding up his hand,--

"Not at all curious, Del? You don't ask what Mr. Solitude Drake wanted?"

"I don't think I care what he wanted: company, I suppose."

And I went on making bad puns about solitude sweetened, and ducks and
drakes, as happy people do, whose hearts are quite at ease.

"And you don't want to know at all, Del?" said he, laughing a little
nervously, and dropping from his hand an open paper into mine. "It shall
be my wedding-present to you. It is Mr. Drake's retainer. Pretty stout
one, is it not? This is what made me jump out of the window,--this and
one other thing."

"Why, this is a draft for five hundred dollars!" said I, reading and
staring stupidly at the paper.

"Yes, and I am retained in that great Albany land-case. It involves
millions of property. That is all, Del. But I was so glad, so happy,
that I was likely to do well at last, and that I could gratify all the
wishes, reasonable and unreasonable, of my darling!"

"Is it a good deal?" said I, simply; for, after all, five hundred
dollars did not seem such an Arabian fortune.

"Yes, Del, a good deal. Whichever way