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 re-united 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,
lie 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 slipt away
to his old stool at my esteemed friend's knee, and
there, with his hot chesnuts 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 eye 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 God-
father, there was once a boy;—not me, you
know."

"No, no," says my respected friend, "not
you. Not him, Major, you understand?"

"No, no," says I.

"And he went to school in Rutlandshire"

"Why not Lincolnshire?" says my respected
friend.

"Why not, you dear old Gran? Because I
go to school in Lincolnshire, don't I?"

"Ah, to be sure!" says my respected friend.
"And it's not Jemmy, you understand, Major?"

"No, no," says I.

"Well!" our boy proceeded, hugging himself
comfortably, and laughing merrily (again in
confidence with the fire), before he again looked up
in Mrs. Lirriper's face, "and so he was
tremendously in love with his schoolmaster's daughter,
and she was the most beautiful creature that
ever was seen, and she had brown eyes, and she
had brown hair all curling beautifully, and she
had a delicious voice, and she was delicious
altogether, and her name was Seraphina."

"What's the name of your schoolmaster's
daughter, Jemmy?" asks my respected friend.

"Polly!" replied Jemmy, pointing his
forefinger at her. "There now! Caught you!
Ha! ha! ha!"

When he and my respected friend had had a
laugh and a hug together, our admittedly
remarkable boy resumed with a great relish:

"Well! And so he loved her. And so he
thought about her, and dreamed about her, and
made her presents of oranges and nuts, and
would have made her presents of pearls and
diamonds if he could have afforded it out of his
pocket-money, but he couldn't. And so her
father—O, he WAS a Tartar! Keeping the boys
up to the mark, holding examinations once a
month, lecturing upon all sorts of subjects at all
sorts of times, and knowing everything in the
world out of book. And so this boy—"

"Had he any name?" asks my respected
friend.

"No he hadn't, Gran. Ha! ha! There
now! Caught you again!"

After this, they had another laugh and
another hug, and then our boy went on.

"Well! And so this boy he had a friend
about as old as himself, at the same school, and
his name (for He had a name, as it happened)
was—let me remember—was Bobbo."

"Not Bob," says my respected friend.

"Of course not," says Jemmy. " What
made you think it was, Gran? Well! And
so this friend was the cleverest and bravest and
best looking and most generous of all the friends
that ever were, and so he was in love with
Seraphina's sister, and so Seraphina's sister was
in love with him, and so they all grew up."

"Bless us!" says my respected friend. " They
were very sudden about it."

"So they all grew up," our boy repeated,
laughing heartily, "and Bobbo and this boy went
away together on horseback to seek their fortunes,
and they partly got their horses by favour, and