But that was an exception; they were usually his slaves, and loved his stories as much as their elders did. He treated them as his equals only requiring that they should do the same; and when his first grandson was born and some one alluded to him as a proud grandfather, he said: “I like the child, but there’s to be no grandfather about it. I’m to be Joe to him as to others.” And so he was to the children of that dear lady in beautiful Ightham Mote. Christmas was a real Yuletide in the fine old wainscoted hall and library, where Joe was always ready for the revel, as he was for the outdoor sports with his own children and those of the house. There were games in the beautiful old quadrangle and fishing feats from the bridges that lead across the moat to the bowling-green beyond; but the latter must have been worse than a bad joke to an expert angler such as my husband--consisting as they did in trying to lure the trout by a bait tied on to a hairpin; luckily the fish swam away merrily and perhaps enjoyed the fun too. Frederick Jameson, that earliest friend of the days of our courtship, led the carol and song, and played for children and grown-ups to dance; Henry James sat in the ingle nook and told us ghost-stories of his making wholly in keeping with the place; George Meredith watched and made shrewd comments on the characteristics and possible careers of our various children, and discoursed on every topic--always expecting the homage due to him and reserving the conversation, even from Joe, by a long-drawn “Ah--” until he was ready with his next paradox. Yet there was a moment when Joe scored even off Meredith. I think he tells the tale in _Coasting Bohemia_, but not of himself. Meredith had been criticizing George Eliot, and in a brief pause, Joe put in: “Yes! Panoplied in all the philosophies she swoops upon the commonplace.” And Meredith, laughing, replied, “I wish I had said that myself!” One day we were busy amusing the children in the big Hall with a game of Definitions; one wrote down a word for Subject, the next man defined, and the third--the paper being turned over the Subject--“recovered” it. Thus: Subject, _Soap_; Definition, as made by Joe: _The Horror of the East-end multitude_. Recovery, _Jack the Ripper_: the nickname of the celebrated East-end murderer who was then the talk of the whole town. Joe was leaving that day for London, and the man came to announce that the trap was at the door. He rose to go, but the children had begun another definition for his “last.” _Woman_ was given as the word. _The Better Half_, wrote the next person. “Only just time to make the train, Sir,” said the footman. The children wailed, and we all followed him out of the hall and saw him off; but half an hour later a telegram was handed to our hostess. “Recovery: _An Angel once removed_”; and nobody needed to hear the signature.