It was only then, at that precise moment, that I in any way connected Mettie's remarks with the thought of the Pirate Boy, now a purser in the ---- Line.
"My dear Mettie," I said, "I should certainly write to him--write often, write affectionately, send him your photograph, work him a housewife for his cabin, carve him a frame for your photograph. I am delighted----"
"Oh! but nothing is settled yet," simpered Mettie.
It has sometimes struck me since, although one generally denies the suggestion, that the first sentiment of love-making may emanate from the woman's mind. But probably the Pirate will never know that it was not his own idea that he should fall in love with Mettie.
This evening I was looking over a lot of old letters, such as our fathers and mothers used to keep, put away in drawers with bits of ribbon tied round them in the days when there was more time for that sort of thing than there is now. And I came across the following letter, written in ink that has grown rather faded, and dated 1845. It describes a wedding, and I have saved it from a number of other letters which I have destroyed, to stick it into my diary as an appropriate sort of ending to my entries for to-day. The letter is a genuine one, and I have the original of it beside me now.