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."