My remark was--I confess I made it with the deepest and artfullest of
intentions--"I wish our dear boy had heard them!"

"Are you serious Madam?" asked the Major starting and turning full round.

"Why not Major?"

"Madam" says the Major, turning up one of his cuffs, "they shall be
written for him."

"Ah! Now you speak" I says giving my hands a pleased clap. "Now you are
in a way out of moping Major!"

"Between this and my holidays--I mean the dear boy's" says the Major
turning up his other cuff, "a good deal may be done towards it."

"Major you are a clever man and you have seen much and not a doubt of
it."

"I'll begin," says the Major looking as tall as ever he did, "to-morrow."

My dear the Major was another man in three days and he was himself again
in a week and he wrote and wrote and wrote with his pen scratching like
rats behind the wainscot, and whether he had many grounds to go upon or
whether he did at all romance I cannot tell you, but what he has written
is in the left-hand glass closet of the little bookcase close behind you.