ys of weariness, making my
heart glad and proud? Do I not love him the more for his shortcomings?

[Illustration: MY FIRST-BORN]

Somehow, as I stare at him in this dim candlelight, he seems to take odd
shape. Slowly he grows into a little pink imp, sitting cross-legged
among the litter of my books and papers, squinting at me (I think the
squint is caused by the big 'K'), and I find myself chatting with him.

It is an interesting conversation to me, for it is entirely about
myself, and I do nearly all the talking, he merely throwing in an
occasional necessary reply, or recalling to my memory a forgotten name
or face.

[Illustration: Drawing with signature:

Yours Sincerely,

Jerome K. Jermome]

We chat of the little room in Whitfield Street, off the Tottenham Court
Road, where he was born; of our depressing, meek-eyed old landlady, and
of how, one day, during the course of chance talk, it came out that she,
in the far back days of her youth, had been an actress, winning stage
love and breaking stage hearts with the best of them; of how the faded
face would light up as, standing with the tea-tray in her hands, she
would tell us of her triumphs, and repeat to us her 'Press Notices,'
which she had learned by heart; and of how from her we heard not a few
facts and stories useful to us. We talk of the footsteps that of
evenings would climb the creaking stairs and enter at our door; of
George, who always believed in us (God bless him!), though he could
never explain why; of practical Charley, who thought we should do better
if we left literature alone and stuck to work. Ah! well, he meant
kindly, and there be many who would that he had prevailed. We remember
the difficulties we had to contend with; the couple in the room below,
who would come in and go to bed at twelve, and lie there, quarrelling
loudly, until sleep overcame them about two, driving our tender and
philosophical sentences entirely out of our head; of the asthmatical old
law-writer, whose never-ceasing cough troubled us greatly (maybe, it
troubled him also, but I fear we did not consider that); of the rickety
table that wobbled as we wrote, and that, whenever in a forgetful moment
we leant upon it, gently but firmly collapsed.

'Yes,' I said to the little pink imp; 'as a study the room had its
drawbacks, but we lived some grand hours there, didn't we? We laughed
and sang there, and the songs we chose breathed ever of hope and
victory, and so loudly we