Misunderstood

Miles received the information with great respect, and began to disentangle his elastic from his hair.

"Not yet!" exclaimed Humphrey; "wait till we kneel down; I'll tell you when."

Miles kept his eyes fixed upon Humphrey, with his hand on the brim of his hat, ready to take it off at the expected signal.

"Now!" said Humphrey. Down knelt the two little brothers on the grass, baring their curly heads as they did so.

Little Miles was accustomed to repeat his prayer after Virginie, and did not know it by heart; and he was in great perplexity till Humphrey had finished, not knowing whether it would be best to remain kneeling or not.

In about five minutes Humphrey jumped up and put on his hat. Miles rose too, and confided his troubles. Humphrey instantly gave the subject his earnest attention.

"It would never do for you to say my prayer after me," he said, reflectively; "you're too young."

"Too young," repeated Miles, meekly.

"And I've forgotten my baby prayer, of course," continued Humphrey; "it's so very very long since I used to say it– I'll tell you what, Miles, you might say your grace!"

"My grace?" said Miles, rather scared; "why, that isn't prayers, is it, Humphie?"

"Oh, yes, it is," answered Humphrey; "in your little book of 'Prayers for Children,' your grace has got at the top of it, 'A prayer after meat.' Meat, you know, means breakfast, dinner, and tea; even if you only have bread and butter, or sop."

"Does it?" exclaimed Miles. "I thought meat was only beef and mutton—hardly chicken!"

"Ah! but it does, though," said Humphrey, in a superior tone; "you don't know, Miles. There's lots of things you don't know yet. Why you thought grace wasn't prayers, and yet it is. Now say this after me: 'For what I have received, may the Lord make me truly thankful.'"

"Why! that's your grace, Humphie, not mine! Mine is only, 'Thank God for my good breakfast.'"

"That will do," said Humphrey.

"But, Humphie! I've not had my breakfast! How can I say it?"

"To be sure," said Humphrey, reflectively, "that makes it very awkward. You've not even had a bit of bread. If you'd only had a biscuit, it would have done—it's very unlucky."

He remained for some minutes in an attitude of deep thought.

"I know!" he exclaimed suddenly; "I always say a grace before my meals, and of course you'll have some breakfast presently, so you can say my grace after me. It's very difficult for you, of course; but still, if I say it very slowly, you can manage to do it. Now listen very attentively: 'For what I am going to receive, may the Lord make me truly thankful.'"

Miles knelt down and repeated the little prayer, and then the two little brothers sat down on the grass, and counted their mushrooms, to see how' many there would be for the wild men apiece.

Meanwhile Virginie, awakened by the rush of cold air caused by the open door, sat up in bed and looked about her.

The two little nightgowns on the floor and the jug of water in the middle of the room, first attracted her attention; but the room being partially dark, she did not perceive that the children had disappeared. She got up and opened the shutters, and then stood staring at the empty beds, the sheets and blankets scattered in all directions. And then she advanced hurriedly to Humphrey's bed, to see if the children were hidden beneath it. She looked also under the wardrobe, behind the curtains, in the toy cupboard. But her astonishment changed to alarm when she found their clothes were missing, and she ran into the day-nursery, and hung over the stairs shouting, "M. Humphrey! M. Miles!"

Not being dressed, she could not go down, so she rang the bell violently, and began to put on her things as quickly as she could.

The housemaid who answered the bell could give no account of the young gentlemen, but volunteered to search the house for them.

While she was absent Virginie's eyes fell on Miles's flannel shirt, and she wrung her hands in despair.

"They must have gone out," said the housemaid, returning; "the conservatory door is wide open, and so is the outer door."

"Impossible!" stuttered Virginie, in her broken English; "their walking boots have not mounted; they have not but the thin shoes of the house!"

"They must be out," repeated the housemaid, "for I've hunted every corner. Have they taken their hats?"

Virginie strode across the room, and opened a drawer.

"Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, when she saw it was empty.

"But, I say," she continued, gesticulating violently with both hands, "that M. Miles will catch the cold, the cough, the croup. See there, Jeanne! he has not the flannel shirt he carries always. His chest will inflame. He will die!"

She began to put on her bonnet.

"There they are!" exclaimed Jane, who had gone to the window. "Look there! out in that field!"

"In the fields? sitting on the wet grass!" said Virginie in horror, as she distinguished the two little figures in the distance, seated under a tree. "Entrez, entrez, à l'instant!" she screamed to the children, though they were much too far off to hear. She seized her shawl and ran down-stairs.

The little boys were coming homewards when she got into the garden, and she hurried on to meet them. Miles had hold of his brother's hand, and was walking rather wearily; but Humphrey, with his head still full of the success of his morning sport, disregarded alike Miles's languor and Virginie's infuriated appearance.

"Regardez!" he shouted in triumph, holding up his basket of mushrooms.

At the sight of Miles's wet boots and flushed cheeks, Virginie forgot all the reproaches she had prepared for Humphrey and merely with lofty disdain confiscating his mushrooms, she took Miles up in her arms and carried him home.

Humphrey trotted along by her side, entreating to have his basket restored, but she took no notice of him.

She carried Miles straight up into the nursery, and began to undress him. He presented a curious appearance when his blouse was taken off—strings all knotted together, buttons forced into the wrong holes, and hooks clinging to outlets that were never intended for them.

Miles yawned all the time, and sneezed once or twice, each time provoking from Virginie an exclamation, half of alarm and half of anger.

"You needn't scold Miles," called out Humphrey, who was being washed in the distance by the nursery-maid; "he didn't want to come—it was all me."

When they were dressed again, the two little culprits were seated to their breakfast, but forbidden to hold any communication with each other except in French.

It was rather a slow ending to so pleasant a beginning, especially as after breakfast Miles was so tired that he had to lie down, and Humphrey was hardly allowed to move for fear of disturbing him.

Virginie would not let them out of her sight for the rest of the day, and they took a dull walk in the afternoon, one on each side of her.

Towards evening, Miles gave forth an ominous cough, and was decidedly croupy at night.

Virginie's nerves always deserted her when the delicate boy was ill in his father's absence, and towards the middle of the next day she could stand it no longer, and sent off for the doctor.

Humphrey was very remorseful when Virginie informed him it was his fault that Miles was unwell, and remained in a state of great depression for about three minutes. But the sight of the doctor's gig coming up the avenue sent it all out of his head, and he dashed down-stairs, three steps at a time, to receive him at the hall door.

"Well, Doctor," he called out; "how are you? Why, you've got new harness to your horse! How jolly and clean it looks."

"New harness?—yes," said the doctor, dismounting; "but tell me what's the matter with your brother?"

"Oh, it was the mushrooms," said Humphrey, vaguely, and with his eyes running over the new reins and straps. "I wonder how long they'll look so fresh and clean?"

"Mushrooms!" exclaimed the doctor; "you don't mean to say they let that delicate child eat mushrooms? Has he got an attack of indigestion?"

"Oh, no," said Humphrey, springing down the steps and patting the horse; "a pain in his chest, I think. How glossy his coat is to-day, isn't it?"

"Same thing—same thing," said the doctor; "and I'm sure I don't wonder, if they let him eat mushrooms."

Humphrey burst out laughing, having for the first time given his attention to what the doctor was saying.

"Why, they were raw!" he said.

"Raw mushrooms!" exclaimed the doctor, "who could have allowed him to eat them?"

"But he didn't eat any," said Humphrey, convulsed. And he rolled about so, as he laughed at the doctor's mistake, that he knocked up against the horse, who immediately plunged.

"Take care, my dear child," said the doctor, pulling him away; "you mustn't frighten black Bob—he won't stand it. But, tell me," he continued, drawing the boy into the hall, "Why did you say the mushrooms had given him a pain in his chest?"

"It was the flannel shirt–" began Humphrey; but at the sound of hoofs on the gravel outside, he broke off suddenly: "Oh there's black Bob plunging again; I must go and see—let me go, please." He broke from the doctor's grasp, and ran back to the door, calling out as he did so: "It might have been the flannel shirt, perhaps, if it wasn't the shoes; but we were in such a hurry."

Despairing of getting any sense out of him, the doctor let him go, and pursued his way up-stairs, where he had full details from Virginie.

He did not think Miles very bad, but ordered him to be kept in two rooms for the rest of the week.

I need hardly say that when he came down again Humphrey had persuaded the groom to let him get into the gig, and there he was in the broiling sun without his hat, driving black Bob round and round the approach.

CHAPTER V

Little Miles was terribly disappointed to find his confinement up-stairs would extend over the day of the dinner-party, but there was no help for it.

The eventful Friday arrived, and Humphrey was on the fidget all day. He paid constant visits to the dining-room and library, and even intruded into the kitchen; but he could see nothing in any of the preparations going on which at all differed from those usual.

"I suppose, for once they will eat like civilized people," he told Miles—after visit one hundred and fourth down-stairs, in the vain hope of finding something new.

"Yes, just for a treat," suggested little Miles; and they amused themselves for the next few hours by imagining the astonishment of the wild men at all the different things they would see.

Sir Everard arrived late, and went straight up to Miles's room. It so happened that he did not see Humphrey, as he was under the hands of Virginie, in preparation for his appearance in company; and as several of the guests had already arrived, Sir Everard had only just time to kiss Miles, and to hurry off to his dressing-room, from whence he descended to the library. So that the conversation of the preceding week, and the children's excitement over the prospect of the aborigines, had entirely escaped his memory, for want of the refreshing it would have been sure to have received had he had time for a word with either of his little boys.

He was deep in politics with an old gentleman in a broad expanse of satin waistcoat, and a general buzz of conversation was going on all over the room, when the library door was flung open with a bounce, and Humphrey appeared in the doorway.

Fresh from Virginie's improving hand, in velveteen clothes, white waistcoat, and light blue tie, with his brown hair brushed back from his bright face, and his eyes sparkling with excitement, he looked like a being of another sphere, among the rusty old gentlemen congregated in the room.

Many of them turned round to look at the pretty boy, and more than one held out a hand of greeting.

But, to Sir Everard's annoyance, Humphrey, whose manners were usually perfect, took not the slightest notice of any of these overtures.

He stood at the door as if spell-bound, gazing around him with an expression of intense surprise, wonder, and disappointment.

"Humphrey," said Sir Everard, "why don't you come and say 'How do you do?' to these gentlemen?"

"Father," exclaimed the boy, in a clear treble voice, that was heard all over the room, "where are the wild men?"

The ghastly truth flashed across Sir Everard's mind, as the boy asked the question. The recollection of the children's conversation with their uncle came back to him, and he was at his wit's end.

"Wild men, Humphrey?" he said, with a sickly smile, "what are you dreaming about? There are no wild men here."

"You know what I mean, father," the child answered, in the same clear voice, making his way straight across the room to Sir Everard; "the wild men of the woods, that you and Uncle Charlie were talking about last Saturday, and who you said you were going to have to dinner. There were two long words, and the one I mean—means wild men. It was a very long word, the a—abo–"

"Constituents?" gasped the baronet.

Fortunately for Sir Everard's seat in Parliament, the two long words, heard for the first time that Saturday, had confused themselves in the boy's mind, and he answered "I suppose it was—but I thought it began with an 'a.'"

"And you thought 'constituents' meant 'wild men?'" pursued his father, eagerly following up his advantage, while the guests laughed. "Why did you not ask me, or look it out in the dictionary? Though, to be sure," concluded the baronet, appealing to the bystanders, "I don't know that it would have been easy to make it clear to a child of seven."

"No, indeed," answered one or two.

"But why should he think it meant wild men?" asked another, laughingly.

"A child's natural love of the extraordinary, I suppose," answered Sir Everard, "the unknown is always the marvellous, and ignorance is always the most easily deceived."

He hardly knew if he was talking sense or not; he only felt he must provide an answer of some kind, and having silenced his questioner, he breathed freely again. But there was an only half-satisfied expression on Humphrey's face which alarmed his father: and dreading that he should cast his thoughts back, and by raking up something else that had been said on that fatal occasion furnish to the assembled guests the clue to the conversation, he drew the boy to him, and told him he had better run back to his brother.

It still wanted five minutes to dinner; and he felt there was no peace of mind for him, as long as Humphrey remained in the room.

As if to atone for his unceremonious entry, Humphrey seemed determined that his exit should be more in accordance with the rules of society; for he advanced to the fat gentleman next his father, and holding out his hand wished him "good night;" then, proceeding to the next in order, he did likewise.

"Is he going to shake hands with every single one?" thought Sir Everard, in despair, as his eyes wandered from one to another of his twenty guests, dispersed all over the library.

There could be no doubt about it. Patiently and methodically Humphrey went through his task. Not one was overlooked—not one was left out.

No matter if one was standing apart, at the other end of the room, another deep in a volume of prints, and two more tête-à-tête in a political discussion. Humphrey thought nothing of pursuing the first, rousing the second, and disturbing the others. The inevitable "good-night" rang out all down the room, and the inevitable little palm was outstretched.

Sir Everard ever afterwards looked back to those slow moments of torture, as to a sort of hideous nightmare. Each minute was laden with anxiety, each new handshaking fraught with danger, each conversation that a guest opened with the child, a fresh source of fear.

Interminable moments! The hands of the clock seemed as if they would never move, the gong seemed as if it would never sound, and he stood in despair, watching the little figure pursuing its triumphal progress down the room, and listening to the patronizing tones in which one and the other rallied the boy on his mistake.

"So you thought you were going to see a lot of wild men, young gentleman?"

"Uncle Charlie told me so," was the answer.

Sir Everard fidgeted from one leg to the other. ("Only thirteen more," he observed to himself.)

"And you're quite disappointed?" said the next one, laughing.

"Yes," said Humphrey; "there isn't much to see in a lot of gentlemen in black coats."

("Only twelve now," reflected the baronet.)

"It was a joke of uncle's, I suppose," said a paterfamilias, in a consoling tone—and Sir Everard beat the ground nervously with his foot.

"A very stupid joke," said Humphrey, with which opinion his father fervently agreed.

It ended at last. The gong sounded, the last "good night" was said, and with an indescribable sense of relief Sir Everard saw the little figure disappear. But he did not recover himself all the evening. It was remarked that he was silent and abstracted during the dinner, and the guests shook their heads, and observed that he had never got over his wife's death. He was truly thankful when the party broke up, and the strain was over.

He could not pass the bedroom nursery without taking a look at Miles. He was sleeping peacefully, but various sounds, as if of sobbing, came from the other little bed.

Sir Everard laid his hand on the sheet, but it was held tight, and the curly head hidden beneath it. "Why, Humphrey, my little man, what is the matter?"

Very inarticulate sounds succeeded, but by dint of great patience, the baronet distinguished among the sobs that, "he was afraid Uncle Charlie would go to hell, for telling such a dreadful story, and he couldn't bear to think of it!"

CHAPTER VI

Virginie waylaid Sir Everard on his way down to breakfast next morning, to beg him to speak to Humphrey on the subject of leading Miles into mischief.

The baronet acquiesced with a sigh. It was a job he particularly disliked. In the short time he was able to be with his children, he enjoyed seeing them all life and happiness; and he hated to bring a cloud over their bright faces.

Humphrey was hanging out of the window when his father went into the dining room, and Sir Everard was half afraid of calling him away, for fear of startling him, and causing him to fall out; but at the sound of his father's footsteps, the boy drew himself in and bounded towards him.

"Why did you not come and help me to dress this morning?" said Sir Everard, as he kissed him.

Humphrey looked rather bored. "Virginie wouldn't let me," he answered; "she thought it would be a good punishment."

Here was an opening! Sir Everard felt he ought not to let it slip.

"Punishment!" said he, trying to look very solemn; "I am sorry to hear you deserved punishing. Why, what have you been doing?"

Humphrey looked up to the ceiling, down to the ground, and all round the room. "I can't remember what it was, father!"

Sir Everard tried hard not to smile. "What is the use of scolding such a boy," thought he; "a child who does not even remember for what offence he is suffering?"

"Stop a minute!" cried Humphrey, who was still in an attitude of reflection, "perhaps I shall remember presently."

He ran over his recent misdemeanors in his head, checking them off with his fingers and his father, seeing it was likely to be a long job, sat down to breakfast.

"Well, Humphrey!" he questioned, after a pause, "have you remembered?"

"No, I can't," answered the boy, "but I'm sure Virginie will. Shall I run up and ask her?"

Sir Everard was amused, but a little provoked. It seemed such a hopeless task ever to make an impression upon Humphrey. But he only said, "No, you need not do that; I think I can tell you a little about it. Come and sit down here."

Sir Everard turned the tap of the urn, and put on the longest face he could think of. "I am sorry to hear from Virginie," he began, looking full at Humphrey, so as to make sure he was gaining his attention, "that you have–"

He stopped in despair, for Humphrey's eyes had wandered to the tap, and his mind was intent on the running water.

"Are you listening to me, Humphrey?"

"Take care!" was all Humphrey's answer jumping up from his chair, and clapping his hands; "turn it off! quick! look! look! father!"

There was no help for it, Sir Everard had to break off his discourse, and attend to the water, which was running all over the table, and the boy's laughter was so infectious that he joined heartily in it.

"I give it up," he said to himself; "it's no use trying to make an impression on anything so volatile."

"It served you quite right, father," said Humphrey, "for not letting me turn on the tap. You know quite well Miles and I always take turns to do it. Oh! I wish it would happen again!" And at the recollection, the merry laugh broke out once more.

But the mention of the little prisoner up-stairs, recalled Sir Everard to a sense of his duty, for Miles was suffering for his brother's thoughtlessness. So he gave Humphrey a long lecture on leading his brother astray and threatened him with the continual espionage of Virginie in the garden if he had any more complaints of the kind.

Humphrey sat looking very mournful while the discourse lasted, and was vehement in his promises that it should never happen again.

"Till next time, I suppose," said the baronet, laughing; and then he gave him some bread and honey and took up the newspaper.

He felt rather proud of the effect he had produced, for Humphrey ate his bread and honey in silence, and seemed very thoughtful.

"Boys will not attend to the maids," he reflected; "there is nothing like the authority of a parent after all."

In about five minutes, Humphrey's meditations came to a close.

"Father!"

"What, my boy," said Sir Everard, putting down the paper, in anticipation of some penitent speech, and mentally saying, "I did not mean him to take it so much to heart, poor child!"

"If you had lived in the times of the Wars of the Roses, which side would you have taken?"

Sir Everard was rather taken aback. In the first place, because it was rather a shock to his feelings to find, after all, how little impression he had made; and in the second, he was by no means so familiar with that part of history as to be able to give his opinion in a hurry. He would not, however, lower himself in the boy's estimation by allowing his ignorance.

"Wars of the Roses," he repeated, to gain a little time for reflection; "have you been learning a great deal about them lately?"

"Yes," said Humphrey, with a sigh; "Virginie seems very fond of them. Is it true that unless I remember all the battles of the Wars of the Roses, I shall never be able to go into parliament?"

"Does Virginie say so?" enquired Sir Everard.

"Yes," said Humphrey. "She says, of course all the members of parliament know the names at the tips of their fingers and could say them in order; and which were won by Yorkists and which by Lancastrians."

Sir Everard felt very thankful that he held his seat on less frail a tenure, and sincerely hoped his son was not going to put him to the test. Vain hope!

"I suppose, of course, father, you could say them right off?"

"It's almost a pity to stay indoors such a fine day," said the baronet, hastily; "suppose you get your hat and run out in the garden."

Yorkists and Lancastrians at once vanished from Humphrey's head, and he was off. But when he was gone, Sir Everard took down a volume of English History, and studied it for the rest of the morning.

After luncheon, Sir Everard proposed to take Humphrey out riding.

Little Miles looked very disconsolate when the horses came to the door, and he found himself condemned to a solitary afternoon, but seemed somewhat cheered by a long-whispered confabulation that his brother had with him before starting.

At three o'clock Sir Everard and Humphrey mounted, and as they went along the road, the following conversation took place:—

"Will you pass through the town, father; because I've got some shopping to do?"

"Shopping! why what do you want to buy?"

"It's such a very great secret, that I don't think I can tell you. But perhaps you can keep a secret?"