No, I take up my humble pen to register a little record of our strikingly remarkable boy, which my poor capacity regards as presenting a pleasant little picture of the dear boy’s mind.  The picture may be interesting to himself when he is a man.

Our first reunited Christmas-day was the most delightful one we have ever passed together.  Jemmy was never silent for five minutes, except in church-time.  He talked as we sat by the fire, he talked when we were out walking, he talked as we sat by the fire again, he talked incessantly at dinner, though he made a dinner almost as remarkable as himself.  It was the spring of happiness in his fresh young heart flowing and flowing, and it fertilised (if I may be allowed so bold a figure) my much-esteemed friend, and J. J. the present writer.

There were only we three.  We dined in my esteemed friend’s little room, and our entertainment was perfect.  But everything in the establishment is, in neatness, order, and comfort, always perfect.  After dinner our boy slipped away to his old stool at my esteemed friend’s knee, and there, with his hot chestnuts and his glass of brown sherry (really, a most excellent wine!) on a chair for a table, his face outshone the apples in the dish.

We talked of these jottings of mine, which Jemmy had read through and through by that time; and so it came about that my esteemed friend remarked, as she sat smoothing Jemmy’s curls: 

“And as you belong to the house too, Jemmy,—­and so much more than the Lodgers, having been born in it,—­why, your story ought to be added to the rest, I think, one of these days.”

Jemmy’s eyes sparkled at this, and he said, “So I think, Gran.”

Then he sat looking at the fire, and then he began to laugh in a sort of confidence with the fire, and then he said, folding his arms across my esteemed friend’s lap, and raising his bright face to hers.  “Would you like to hear a boy’s story, Gran?”

“Of all things,” replied my esteemed friend.

“Would you, godfather?”

“Of all things,” I too replied.

“Well, then,” said Jemmy, “I’ll tell you one.”

Here our indisputably remarkable boy gave himself a hug, and laughed again, musically, at the idea of his coming out in that new line.  Then he once more took the fire into the same sort of confidence as before, and began: 

“Once upon a time, When pigs drank wine, And monkeys chewed tobaccer, ’Twas neither in your time nor mine, But that’s no macker—­”

“Bless the child!” cried my esteemed friend, “what’s amiss with his brain?”

“It’s poetry, Gran,” returned Jemmy, shouting with laughter.  “We always begin stories that way at school.”

“Gave me quite a turn, Major,” said my esteemed friend, fanning herself with a plate.  “Thought he was light-headed!”

“In those remarkable times, Gran and godfather, there was once a boy,—­not me, you know.”