"There you're wrong, lad; no book can be too sacred for all folks to read, if it's writ honestly and sincerely. An' what a book you ought to write. First there's Anna an' yourself--folks would like to read about the two o' ye--you're such strange children. Then there's Jessamy--a wonderful character for any book. Next comes your uncles an' aunt--Lord, Peregrine, an' there's for ye--'specially your aunt! And last--" said he, a little wistfully, "if you want some one to fill in, kind of--to keep th' pot a-b'iling as it were, why--there's me. Not as your readers will be downright eager to read about a tinker--no, but you might work me in as a literary cove, d'ye see. How about it? What d'ye think, Perry lad?" "Excellent well!" I exclaimed. "You inspire me with such strange confidence, Jerry, I almost feel I might manage a book--of sorts." "Then go and try, lad." "When--where--how?" "This minute! At home! By hard work!" "You mean leave--go back to Merivale--to-night?" "Aye, I do. You can catch the mail at Tonbridge and you'll be home afore the moon's up." "Do you know Merivale then, Jerry?" "O' course. I'll harness Diogenes an' drive you in." And so, within the hour, behold me upon the stage-coach that would carry me within a mile of home; behold Jerry standing below, gazing up at me with his wistful smile, a Jeremy whose form and features were blurred suddenly by hot tears as the whip cracked, hoofs stamped, and the London Mail lurched forward with a shrill and jubilant fanfare on the horn that drowned my cry of farewell, as Jeremy's blurred image waved blurred arm and, what with my tears and the dust, was blotted from me altogether. With the small incidents of this short journey I will not worry the reader. Suffice it that the moon was high-risen when at last I reached Merivale. The lodge gates were shut for the night, and being in no mood to disturb any one, I clambered over the wall at an easily-accessible, well-remembered spot, and going by familiar paths, presently beheld the house, its many latticed casements winking ghostly to the moon, and a beam of soft light striking athwart the terrace from that chamber wherein my aunt Julia was wont to write her letters and transact all business of the estate. So thither came I to find the window wide open, for the night was hot, and to behold my aunt, as handsome and statuesque as ever, bent gracefully above her escritoire, pen in white fist, like an industrious goddess. "Aunt Julia," said I, "pray don't be startled--I have come home--" At this, though I had spoken softly, she dropped the pen, rose and, clasping hands to bosom, uttered a scream, though sweetly modulated and extremely ladylike. Then we were in each other's arms and she was weeping and laughing over me in a very ecstasy of welcome.