“I can’t mistake you, my love,” replied Jeremiah, affectionately, “and I wish he could see how happy we are. It would do his heart good, I really think.”
“Who can he be!” exclaimed the eldest daughter.
“Perhaps it’s somebody like me!” cried the little odd gentleman, stepping briskly forward.
“It is! it is!” shrieked mamma, and up jumped the whole party, and down went Mrs Wag upon her knees, while, utterly unconscious of what she did, her arms were clasped round the neck of her benefactor, whose bodily frame, being unable to sustain her matronly weight, gave way, and so they rolled together on the floor.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the eccentric elderly gentleman, as soon as he recovered breath, but without attempting to rise. “This is a Christmas gambol, eh! Master Wag?—eh! my merry little Wags? Needn’t ask you all how you are.”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Jeremiah, “allow me to assist you. I hope you are not hurt.”
“Hurt!” cried the little gentleman, jumping up and offering his hand to Mrs Wag. “Hurt! Why, I feel myself twenty years younger than I did five minutes ago. Never mind, ma’am. Like Christmas gambols. Always did. Happen to have such a thing as a bunch of mistletoe, eh?”
“I am sure, sir,” whimpered Mrs Wag—“I am sure I shall never forgive myself. To think of taking such a liberty; I—I—can’t conceive how I could——”
“As often as ever you please, my good lady,” said the eccentric, handing her to a chair; “but sit down and compose yourself, while I shake hands all round;” and, turning toward Jeremiah, he commenced the ceremony, which he went through with from the eldest to the youngest, calling them all by their names, as correctly as though he were a constant visitor.