6th.—­The arbitrator has shown that he deserved my confidence in him.  He ranked himself entirely on my side before I had half done explaining to him what my new project really was.  As to my husband’s doubts and difficulties, the dear good man would not so much as hear them mentioned.  “No objections,” he cried, gayly; “set to work, Mr. Kerby, and make your fortune.  I always said your wife was worth her weight in gold—­and here she is now, all ready to get into the bookseller’s scales and prove it.  Set to work! set to work!”

“With all my heart,” said William, beginning at last to catch the infection of our enthusiasm.  “But when my part of the work and my wife’s has been completed, what are we to do with the produce of our labor?”

“Leave that to me,” answered the doctor.  “Finish your book and send it to my house; I will show it at once to the editor of our country newspaper.  He has plenty of literary friends in London, and he will be just the man to help you.  By-the-by,” added the doctor, addressing me, “you think of everything, Mrs. Kerby; pray have you thought of a name yet for the new book?”

At that question it was my turn to be “taken aback.”  The idea of naming the book had never once entered my head.

“A good title is of vast importance,” said the doctor, knitting his brows thoughtfully.  “We must all think about that.  What shall it be? eh, Mrs. Kerby, what shall it be?”

“Perhaps something may strike us after we have fairly set to work,” my husband suggested.  “Talking of work,” he continued, turning to me, “how are you to find time, Leah, with your nursery occupations, for writing down all the stories as I tell them?”

“I have been thinking of that this morning,” said I, “and have come to the conclusion that I shall have but little leisure to write from your dictation in the day-time.  What with dressing and washing the children, teaching them, giving them their meals, taking them out to walk, and keeping them amused at home—­to say nothing of sitting sociably at work with the dame and her two girls in the afternoon—­I am afraid I shall have few opportunities of doing my part of the book between breakfast and tea-time.  But when the children are in bed, and the farmer and his family are reading or dozing, I should have at least three unoccupied hours to spare.  So, if you don’t mind putting off our working-time till after dark—­”

“There’s the title!” shouted the doctor, jumping out of his chair as if he had been shot.

“Where?” cried I, looking all round me in the surprise of the moment, as if I had expected to see the title magically inscribed for us on the walls of the room.

“In your last words, to be sure!” rejoined the doctor.  “You said just now that you would not have leisure to write from Mr. Kerby’s dictation till after dark. What can we do better than name the book after the time when the book is written?  Call it boldly, After dark. Stop! before anybody says a word for or against it, let us see how the name looks on paper.”