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MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 BY 
 
 FLORENCE MONTGOMERY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 VBKY SIMPLE STOBT,” and “ PEGGY AND OTHBB TALES.” 
 
 “thrown together.” 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 
 
 38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET, 
 
NEW VORUC.: 
 
 EDWARD O. JENKINS, ROBERT RUTPER, 
 
 Printer and StereotyPer Binder^ 
 
 ao North William St, 116 and 118 East 14th Street. 
 
IHE HON. MRS. AUGUSTUS LIDDEU 
 
 
 r-H 
 
 c5 
 
 O 
 
 Pxh 
 
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 CM 
 
 TBE FOLLOWING STOBT 
 
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 StAitxitd, 
 
 939969 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 T he following is not a child’s story. It 
 is intended for those who are inter- 
 ested in children ; for those who are willing 
 to stoop to view life as it appears to a child, 
 and to enter for half-an-hour into the mani- 
 fold small interests, hopes, joys, and trials 
 which make up its sum. 
 
 It has been thought that the lives of chil- 
 dren, as known by themselves, from their 
 own little point of view, are not always suf- 
 ficiently realized; that they are sometimes 
 overlooked or misunderstood ; and to throw 
 some light, however faint, upon the subject, 
 is one of the objects of this little story. 
 
 So much of it has been gathered from ob- 
 servation and recollection, that the author 
 cannot help hoping it may not entirely fail 
 of its aim. 
 
s 
 
 1 1 , 
 
 , ^ ■* 
 
 I. " 
 
 i ; . ; > 
 
 
 
 ..j 
 
 ■ ■ * 
 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 PART /. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 E ver since the nursery dinner has the 
 rain come pouring down all over the 
 fields and meadows, the lawns and gardens, 
 the roofs and gables of old Wareham Abbey, 
 in the county of Sussex. 
 
 Ever since the cloth was cleared away 
 have two little cuny heads been pressed 
 close together at the nursery window, and 
 two pair of eager eyes been watching the 
 -louds and sky. 
 
 What a dreadful wet afternoon ! 1 1 is so 
 
 particularly tiresome, as their father is ex- 
 pected home to-day, and had promised the 
 
 ( 7 ) 
 
8 
 
 MISUNDMBSTOOD. 
 
 two little brothers that they should come 
 and meet him at the station. 
 
 There would be no room for Virginie in 
 the dog-cart, and so, if they promised to sit 
 very still, and not stand on the wheel to get 
 in, or jump out before the carriage had stop- 
 ped, or do anything else equally extraordi- 
 nary, they were to have been trusted to old 
 t’eter, the coachman, and what fun that 
 would have been ! 
 
 To get away from Virginie for so long 
 was the height of human enjoyment. She 
 seemed to them a being created on purpose 
 to interfere with every plan of enjoyment, 
 to foresee danger where they only saw fun, 
 and so bring the shadow of her everlasting 
 “ Ne faites pas ceci, ne faites pas cela,” across 
 the sunny path of their boyish schemes and 
 pastimes. 
 
 Poor Virginie! if she had been brought 
 to the bar of their young judgments, she 
 would have been at once condemned with- 
 out any reference to extenuating circum- 
 stances. And yet she was, in the main a 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 9 
 
 goctd, well-meaniiij^ woman, but unfortu- 
 natel) gifted with “ nerves and the respon. 
 sibility of the entire charge of the children 
 of a widower, who was a great deal away 
 from home, made her ivfe an anxious one, 
 more especially as they were a pair of the 
 most reckless creatures that "iver were born — 
 fearless of danger, heedless of consequences, 
 and deaf to entreaty or remonstrance. 
 
 Little Miles, the youngest, as she often 
 told their father, was well enough alone ; 
 she could manage him perfectly, for, being 
 only four years old, he was amenable to au- 
 thority ; but “ Monsieur Humphrey !” 
 
 Words always failed Virginie at this 
 juncture. She could only throw up her 
 hands, and raise her eyes to the ceiling, with 
 a suppressed exclamation. 
 
 Sir Everard Buncombe was a member of 
 Parliament, and during the session was al- 
 most entirely in London, so that beyond his 
 Saturday to Monday at the Abbey, his 
 children saw but little of him this time of 
 the year. 
 
CO 
 
 MISUNDMMSTOOD. 
 
 During these flying visits he was over 
 whelmed with complaints of all M. Hum 
 phrey had done during the past week: how 
 he would climb impossible trees and jump 
 from impossible heights; how he had gone 
 into the stables right under the horses’ 
 heels, or taken a seat in the kennel, with 
 the blood- hound ; how narrowly he had 
 escaped tumbling over the ha-ha one day, 
 and slipping into the pond the next ; in fact 
 there was no end to his misdemeanors. 
 
 But the point on which Virginie harped 
 was, that he led his little brother into all 
 sorts of mischief ; for what Humphrey did. 
 Miles would do too, and where Humphrey 
 went. Miles was ready to follow. 
 
 It was quite another thing, as Virginie 
 urged, for Miles. Humphrey was proof 
 against colds, coughs, and accidents of all 
 kinds ; but little Miles was physically weak- 
 er, and had moreover a tendency to a deli- 
 cate chest and to croup ; so that cold winds, 
 and wet feet, and over-exertion, could not 
 be too carefully avoided. 
 
MIS UNDEBSTOOD. 
 
 II 
 
 Timid and gentle by nature, clinging and af- 
 fectionate by disposition, he. was just the child 
 a father delights in, and to him Sir Ever- 
 ard’s affections were almost wholly given. 
 
 Lady Buncombe had observed her hus- 
 band’s partiality for his younger boy for 
 some time before her death, and had more 
 than once taxed him with it. 
 
 “ Miles is such a little coaxing thing,” he 
 answered, taking the child up in his arms, 
 and stroking the little curly head which nest- 
 led at once so contentedly down on his 
 shoulder. “ If I took Humphrey up, he 
 would struggle to get down, and be climb 
 ing over the tables and chairs.” 
 
 “ Humphrey is three years older,” argued 
 Lady Buncombe ; “ you could not expect 
 him to sit so still as a baby not yet two : but 
 he is quite as affectionate as Miles, in a dif- 
 ferent way.” 
 
 It may be so,” Sir Everard returned 
 “ but it is very engaging when a little crea- 
 ture clings to one in this way, and sits fol 
 hours in one’s lap.” 
 
12 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 l^dy Duncombe did not answer, but hei 
 eye wandered from the fair-haired baby 
 and rested on her eldest boy, who for three 
 years had been her only child. To her, at 
 least, he was an object of pride and pleas- 
 ure. She gloried in his manly ways, his un- 
 tiring spirits and activity ; and loved his 
 rough caresses quite as well as the more 
 coaxing ways of his baby brother. 
 
 How she delighted to see him come rush- 
 ing headlong into the room, and make one 
 bound into her lap, even if he did knock 
 down a chair or so on his way, upset her 
 work-box and its contents, and dirty the 
 sofa with his muddy boots. What then ! 
 Did not his eager kisses rain upon her 
 cheek? Were not his dear rough arms 
 round her neck ? Did she not know what a 
 loving heart beat under his apparent heed- 
 lessness and forgetfulness ? What if he for- 
 got every injunction and every promise, if 
 he did not forget her ! What if he took heed 
 of no one and nothing, if her look and nei 
 Kiss were aways sought and cared for 1 
 
/ 
 
 MISUI^ DERSTOOD. 
 
 Oh ! it was a sad day for little Humphrey 
 Duncombe when that mother was taken 
 away from him : when the long, wasting ill- 
 ness ended in death : when the hollow eye, 
 which to the last had rested on him, closed 
 for ever on this world ; and the thin, trans- 
 parent hands were folded for the last time 
 on the breast where he should never again 
 hide his curly head, and sob out his confes- 
 sions and repentance. 
 
 Sir Everard, overwhelmed by the blow 
 which had fallen on him, hardly saw his 
 children during the early days of his be- 
 reavement. 
 
 When he did, he was surprised to find 
 Humphrey much the same as ever; still 
 noisy and heedless, still full of mischief, and 
 apparently forgetful of what had happened. 
 
 ‘‘ He has not much heart,'' was his inward 
 comment, as he wrtched the little figure, in 
 its deep mourning, chasing the young lambs 
 in the meadow. 
 
 S*r Everard saw the boy to all appearance 
 the same, because he saw him in his mo- 
 
 2 
 
14 
 
 MIS UKDjUMSTOUD. 
 
 ments of forgetfulness, when nature and 
 childhood had asserted their rights, and the 
 buoyancy of the boy’s disposition had en- 
 abled him to throw off the memory of his 
 sorrow: but he did not see him when the 
 sense of his loss was upon him ; did not see 
 the face change, when the recollection came 
 over him; did not hear the familiar name 
 half uttered, and then choked by a sob. He 
 did not see the rush to the drawing-room, 
 with some new treasure, some new plan to 
 be unfolded — and the sudden stop at the 
 door, as the thought swept over him that 
 on the well-known sofa there is now no 
 mother’s smile awaiting him, no ever-ready 
 ear to listen and sympathize, no loving kiss, 
 no responsive voice: and the low sob of 
 pain, the listless drop of the arms to the side, 
 and the rush away into the open air, away 
 and away, anywhere, to escape from the 
 grief and the longing, and the blank sense 
 of desolation. 
 
 Only He, who dwelling in the highest 
 heaven, yet vouchsafes to behold the lowest 
 
MISUNDMBSTOOD. 
 
 IS 
 
 creature here upon earth, knew what waa 
 in the heart of the boy ; as no one but He 
 saw the pillow wet with tears, and heard 
 the cry breaking forth in the dead of the 
 night from the inmost recesses of the poor 
 little orphaned heart. “ Oh, mother ! moth- 
 er ! what shall I do without you !” 
 
 All this had happened nearly two years 
 before the day of which I am speaking, 
 when the rain was acting its time-hackneyed 
 part before the two little spectators at the 
 window. 
 
 It had faded out of little Miles’ mind as if 
 it had never been; he could not even re- 
 member his mother ; but in the mind of the 
 elder boy her memory was still, at times, 
 fresh and green. 
 
 Weeks and months might pass without 
 his thoughts dwelling on her, but all of a 
 udden, a flower, a book, or some little thing 
 that had belonged to her, would bring it all 
 back, and then the little chest would heave, 
 the curly head would droop, and the merry 
 orown eyes be dimmed by a rush of tears. 
 
l6 MiaUNDBBSTOOD. 
 
 There as a full-length picture in the now 
 unused drawing-room of Lady DuncombC; 
 with Humphrey in her arms ; and at these 
 times, or when he was in some trouble with 
 Virginie, the boy would steal in there, and lie 
 curled up on the floor in the darkened room ; 
 putting himself in the same attitude that he 
 was in in the picture, and then try to fancy 
 he felt her arms round him, and her shoulder 
 against his head. 
 
 There were certain days when the room 
 was scrubbed and dusted ; when the heavy 
 shutters wxre opened, and the daylight 
 streamed upon the picture. Then the two 
 little brothers might be seen standing before 
 it, while the elder detailed to the younger 
 all he could remember about her. 
 
 Miles had the greatest respect and ad- 
 miration for Humphrey. A boy of seven, 
 who wears knickerbockers, is always an 
 object of veneration to one of four, who is 
 as yet limited to blouses : but Miles' imagina- 
 tion could not soar beyond the library and 
 dining-room; and ne could not remember 
 
MiSVNDERSfOOD. 
 
 tf 
 
 tiie drawing-room otherw.se than a closed 
 room ; so his respect grew and intensified as 
 he listened to Humphrey’s glowing descrip, 
 tion of the past glories of the house, when 
 (he drawing-room was one blaze of light, 
 when there were muslin curtains in the 
 windows, and chintz on all the chairs ; and 
 mother lay on the sofa, with her work-table 
 by her side. 
 
 Dim and shadowy was the little fellow's 
 idea of the “ mother ” of whom his brother 
 always spoke in softened tones and with 
 glistening eyes ; but that she was something 
 very fair and holy he was quite sure. 
 
 Deep was his sense of his inferiority to 
 Humphrey in this respect; and a feeling 
 akin to shame would steal over him when 
 one of their long conversations would be 
 abruptly put an end to by Humphrey’s 
 quick, contemptuous “ It’s no use trying tO] 
 make you understand, because you don’ 
 remember her.” 
 
 A very wistful look would come over the 
 pretty little face on these occasions, and he 
 
|8 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 would humbly admit his great degradation 
 
 It was Miles’ admiration for his brothel 
 that was the bane of Virginie’s life. Timid 
 by nature, Miles became bold when Hum 
 phrey led the way ; obedient and submissive 
 oy himself, at Humphrey’s bidding he would 
 set Virginie at defiance, and for the time be 
 as mischievous as he. 
 
 That “ I’union fait la force,” Virginie had 
 long since discovered, to the ruin of her 
 nerves and temper. 
 
 And now Virginie has several times sug- 
 gested that if Humphrey will submit to a 
 water-proof coat, and goloshes, he may go 
 and meet his father at the station; and 
 Humphrey has consented to come to terms 
 if Miles may go too. 
 
 But here Virginie is firm. No amount of 
 wrapping up would prevent Miles catching 
 cold on so damp and rainy a day, a? she 
 knows well, by fatal experience ; so the fiat 
 has gone forth, either Humphrey will gQ 
 alone, or both will stay at home. 
 
MISUNDEMSTOOD. 
 
 19 
 
 “ Don’t go,” pleaded little Miles, as they 
 pressed their faces against the window ; “it 
 will be so dull all alone with Yirginie.” 
 
 “ She’s a cross old thing,” muttered Hum 
 phrey ; “ but never mind. Miles, I won’t go 
 without you, and we’ll count the rain- 
 drops on the window to make the time pass 
 quick.” 
 
 This interesting employment had the de- 
 sired effect, and the next half-hour soon slip- 
 ped by. Indeed, it was so engrossing, that 
 the dog-cart came up the avenue, and was 
 nearly at the hall door, before the little boys 
 perceived it. 
 
 “ Qu’est-ce que c’est done ! ” exclaimed 
 Virginie, startled by Humphrey’s jump from 
 the window-sill to the flnnr. 
 
 “ C’est mon pere,” was all the information 
 he vouchsafed her, as he rushed out of the 
 room. 
 
 “ M. votre p^re ! Attendez done que j« 
 vous arrange un peu les cheveux.” 
 
 She spoke to the winds: nothing was 
 neard of Humphrey but sundry bumps and 
 
20 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 jumps n the distance, which told of hii 
 rapid descent down the stairs. 
 
 The more tardy Miles was caught and 
 brushed, in spite of his struggles, and then he 
 was off to join his brother. 
 
 He reached the hall door just as the car- 
 riage drove up, and the two little figures 
 jumped and capered about, while a tall, 
 dark gentleman divested himself of his 
 mackintosh and umbrella, and then came up 
 the steps into the house. 
 
 He stooped down to kiss the eager faces. 
 “Well, my little fellows, and how are you 
 both? No bones broken since last week? No 
 new bruises and bumps, eh ? ” 
 
 They were so taken up with their father, 
 that they did not perceive that he was not 
 alone, but that another gentleman had got 
 out of the dog-cart, till Sir Everard said — 
 
 “ Now go and shake hands with that gen- 
 tleman. I wonder if you know who he is ?” 
 
 Humphrey looked up into the young 
 man’s face, and said, while his color deep- 
 ened — 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 21 
 
 “ I th.nk you are my Uncle Charlie, who 
 came to see us once a long time ago before 
 you went to sea, and before ” 
 
 “ Quite right,” said Sir Everard, shortly ; 
 “ I did not think you would have remem- 
 bered him. I daresay, Charlie, Humphrey 
 has not altered very much ; but this little fel- 
 low was quite a baby when you went away,” 
 he added, taking Miles up in his arms, and 
 looking at his brother-in-law for admiration. 
 
 “ What a likeness !” exclaimed Uncle Char- 
 lie. 
 
 Sir Everard put the child down with a sigh. 
 
 “ Like in more ways than one, I am afraid. 
 Look here,” pointing to the delicate tracery 
 of the blue veins on the forehead, and the 
 flush on the fair cheek. 
 
 Humphrey had been listening intently to 
 this conversation, and his father being once 
 more occupied with kissing Miles, he ad- 
 vanced to his uncle, and put his hand con- 
 hdingly in his. 
 
 “You are a nice little man,” said Uncle 
 Charlie, laying his other hand on the curly 
 
22 
 
 MIS UNLESS TOOD. 
 
 head ; “ vve were always good friends^ Hum 
 phrey. But,” he added, half to himself, aa 
 he turned up the bright face to his, and 
 gazed at it intently for a moment, “ you are 
 not a bit like your mother.” 
 
 The dressing-gong now sounded, and the 
 little boys proceeded to their father’s room, 
 to help or hinder him with his toilette. 
 
 Miles devoted himself to the carpet-bag, 
 in expectation of some tempting paper par- 
 cel ; while Humphrey’s attentions were giv- 
 en to first one and then the other of the 
 articles he was extracting from the pocket 
 of the coat Sir Everard had just thrown off. 
 
 A suspicious click made the baronet turn 
 round. 
 
 ' What have you got hold of, Humphrey ?” 
 
 An open pocket-knife dropped from the 
 boy’s hand he had just succeeded in open- 
 ing tne two blades, and was in the act of 
 tryir^ the edges on his thumb nail. 
 
 Failing in that experiment, his restless 
 fingers strayed to the dressing-table, and an 
 oniinous silence ensued. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 23 
 
 “ Humphrey,” shouted his father, ‘ put my 
 razor down.” 
 
 In the glass he had caught sight of a well- 
 soaped face, and spoke just in time to stop 
 the operation. 
 
 Punishment always follows sin, and Hum- 
 phrey was dispatched to the nursery to 
 have his face sponged and dried. 
 
 By taking a slide down the banisters, 
 however, he made up for lost time, and 
 arrived at the library-door at the same time 
 as his father and brother. 
 
 Uncle Charlie was standing by the win- 
 dow, ready dressed ; and the gong sound- 
 ing at that moment, they all went in to dinner. 
 
 The two little brothers had a chair on 
 each side of their father, and an occasional 
 share in his food. 
 
 Dinner proceeded in silence. Uncle Char- 
 ge was enjoying his soup, and Sir Everard, 
 div iding himself between his little boys and 
 his meal. 
 
 “It’s William’s birthday to-day, saifl 
 Humphrey, breaking silence, 
 
24 
 
 MISUKDEBSTC OD. 
 
 The unfortunate individual in white silk 
 stockings, thus suddenly brought into pub- 
 lic notice, reddened to the roots of his 
 hair; and in his confusion nearly dropped 
 the dish he was in the act of putting down 
 before his master. 
 
 “ He’s twenty-two years old to-day,” con- 
 tinued Humphrey; “he told me so this 
 morning.” 
 
 Sir Everard tried to evince a proper 
 amount of interest in so important an an- 
 nouncement. 
 
 “ What o’clock were you born, William ?” 
 pursued Humphrey, addressing the shy 
 young footman at the side-board, where he 
 had retreated with the dish-cover, and from 
 whence he was making all sorts of signs to 
 his tormentor, in the vain hope of putting 
 an end to the conversation 
 
 S’r Everard hastily held out a bit of tur- 
 bot on the end of his fork, and effectually 
 slopped the boy’s mouth for a few minutes ; 
 but no sooner had he swallowed it, than ho 
 broke out again. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 25 
 
 “ What are you going to give William for 
 his birthday present, father ?” he said, put- 
 ting his arms on the table, and resting his 
 chin upon them, that he might the more 
 conveniently look up into his father’s face, 
 and await his answer. 
 
 Lower and lower bent Uncle Charlie’s 
 head over his plate, and his face became 
 alarmingly suffused with color. 
 
 “ I know what he’d like,” finished Hum- 
 phrey, “ for he’s told me ! ” 
 
 The unhappy footman snatched up a dish- 
 cover, and began a retreat to the door ; but 
 the inexorable butler handed him the lob- 
 ster sauce, and he was obliged to advance 
 with it to his master’s side. 
 
 “ I said to him to-day,” proceeded Hum- 
 phrey, in all the conscious glory of being in 
 William’s confidence, “ If father were to 
 give you a birthday present, what would you 
 like? You remember, don’t you, William? 
 And then he told me, didn’t you, William ^’ 
 The direct form of attack was more than 
 flesh and blood could stand. William made 
 
 3 
 
96 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 a rush to the door with the halt-filled tray 
 and, in spite of furious glances from the 
 butler, disappeared, just as Uncle Charlie 
 gave it up as a bad job, and burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 “ You must not talk quite so much at 
 dinner, my boy,” said Sir Everard, when 
 the door was shut ; “ your uncle and I have 
 not been able to say a word. I assure you,” 
 he added in an under tone to his brother-in- 
 law, “these children keep me in constant 
 hot water; I never know what they will 
 say next.” 
 
 When the servants reappeared the gentle- 
 men, to William’s relief, were talking poli 
 tics; and Humphrey was devoting his ener- 
 gies to digging graves in the salt, and bury- 
 ing therein imaginary corpses, represented 
 by pills he was forming from his father’s 
 bread. 
 
 “ Will you come and help me with my 
 dinner, next week, Charlie ?” said Sir Eve- 
 rard ; “ I am going to entertain the abor- 
 igines, and I shall want a little assistance; 
 
MISUNDERSTOOV. 
 
 27 
 
 It is now more than two years since 1 paid 
 my constituents any attention, and I feel the 
 time has come.” 
 
 “What long words,” said Humphrey, sotia 
 voce, as he patted down the last salt grave, 
 and stuck a bit of parsley, that had dropped 
 from the fish, on the top of the mound. 
 “ Father,” he went on, “ what are abo — 
 abo— ” 
 
 “ Aborigines ?” finished Uncle Charlie. 
 “ Wild men of the woods, Humphrey ; half 
 human beings, half animals.” 
 
 “And is father going to have them to 
 dinner?” exclaimed Humphrey, in great 
 astonishment. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Uncle Charlie, enjoying the 
 joke ; “ it will be fine fun for you and Miles, 
 won’t it ?” 
 
 “ Oh, won’t it ! ” echoed Humphrey, jump- 
 ng down from his chair, and capering about. 
 ‘ Oh, father ! will you promise, before you 
 even ask Virginie, that we may come down 
 to dinner that night, and see them ?” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t know about dinner ” .said 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 xt 
 
 Sir Everard ; “ little boys are rather in the 
 way on these occasions, especially those who 
 don’t know how to hold their tongues when 
 they ought ; but you shall both come down 
 in the library and see them arrive.” 
 
 At this moment Virginie’s unwelcome 
 nead appeared at the door, and her unwel- 
 come voice proclaimed, “ M. Humphrey, M. 
 Miles, il faut venir vous coucher.” 
 
 Very unwillingly did they ooey, for the 
 conversation had reached a most interesting 
 point, and Humphrey had a hundred and 
 one questions still to put about the aborigines. 
 
 They proceeded quietly upstairs, closely 
 followed by Virginie, who always liked to 
 see them well on in front of her, in case they 
 should take it into their heads to do any- 
 thing very extraordinary on their way. 
 
 To-night, however, they were much too 
 full of the wild men of the woods they were 
 to see on Friday to think of anything else, 
 and they arrived in the bed-room nursery, 
 without giving any shocks to Virginie’s 
 nervous system. 
 
MISUNDESSTOOJ). 
 
 29 
 
 Indeed, the subject lasted them till they 
 were undressed, and washed, and tucked up 
 in their little beds side by side. 
 
 Virginie shut the shutters, and with a sigh 
 of relief retired to supper. 
 
 “ I’m glad she’s gone,” said Humphrey, 
 “because now we can have a good talk 
 about the wild men.” 
 
 “ Oh, Humphie ! ” said little Miles be- 
 seechingly, ^'■please don’t let us talk of them 
 any more now it’s dark ; or if you really 
 must, give me your hand to hold, for it does 
 frighten me so.” 
 
 “ Then we won’t talk about them,” said 
 the elder boy in a soothing tone, as he drew 
 close to the edge of the bed, and threw his 
 arm protectingly round the little one. Miles 
 nestled close up to him, and with their 
 cheeks one against the other, and hands 
 tightly clasped together, they fell asleep. 
 
 Poor little curly heads, o’er whom no fond 
 mother shall bend to-night, murmuring soft 
 words of love and blessing ! Poor dimpled 
 faces, on whom no lingering kiss shall falP 
 3 * 
 
30 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 Outside in the meadows, the young lamba 
 lay by the ewe’s side ; up in the trees the 
 wee birds nestled beneath the parent wing 
 but no light step, no softly rustling gown, 
 no carefully shaded light, disturbed the 
 di'eamless slumber of the two little bro- 
 thers. 
 
CHAFFER II 
 
 S IR EVERARD BUNCOMBE did not 
 make his appearance in the dining, 
 room till nine o’clock, but long before that 
 hour his movements were known to the 
 whole household ; for soon after eight, the 
 two little boys were stationed outside his 
 door, and failing to gain admittance, kept 
 account of the progress of his toilette, in 
 tones which were heard all over the house. 
 
 “ M' ill you soon be out of your bath, 
 fathei ? . . . Are you just about soaping? 
 . . . What are you doing now? . . . Are 
 you sponging now? . . . What a splash 
 father is having ! He must be drying him- 
 self now, he is so very quiet.” 
 
 Then sounded the unlocking of a door, 
 and the scamper of little feet. 
 
 “ I must congratulate you on the satisfac- 
 
32 
 
 MIHUJUDISRSTOOD. 
 
 torj way in which you performed your 
 ablutions this morning,” was Uncle Charlie’s 
 salutation to his brother-in-law, as he entered 
 the breakfast room with a boy on each side 
 of him. 
 
 Sir Everard laughed. “There are no 
 secrets in this house, you see,” he answered, 
 as he shook hands. “ What a lovely day ! ” 
 
 “ Glorious ! but it is going to be very hot. 
 If I remember right, the walk to church is 
 shady all the way. Do these little fellows 
 go to church ? ” 
 
 “ Not Miles, but I generally take Hum- 
 phrey ; and wonderful to say he is as quiet 
 as possible. I really think church is the 
 only place in the world where he can sit 
 still.” 
 
 Humphrey was engaged during the whole 
 of breakfast time in finding the places in his 
 prayer-book, and was too much occupied to 
 talk. 
 
 “ There !” he exclaimed triumphantly, as 
 he put in the last marker, and restrained 
 himself with a violent effort as he was about 
 
MISUNBUJRSTOOD. 
 
 33 
 
 to throw his prayer-book in the air, “ now 
 tney are all found.” 
 
 “ And now you had better go and dress,” 
 said his father, “so as not to keep your 
 ancle and me waiting.” 
 
 Humphrey joined them in the hall at the 
 last minute, having been detained by a skir. 
 mish with Virginie. 
 
 Their way to church lay through the 
 flower-garden and down the avenue. They 
 went out by the side-door, leaving Miles 
 looking disconsolately after them, his pretty 
 little face and slight figure framed in the old 
 doorway. 
 
 They walked on together in silence for 
 some time. 
 
 Sir Everard was enjoying the calm beauty 
 of the summer day ; Humphrey was in pur- 
 suit of a butterfly ; and Uncle Charlie was 
 looking round at the evidences of his dead 
 sister’s taste in the laying out of the flower- 
 garden, and thinking of the last time he had 
 walked through it o church, when she had 
 been by his side. 
 
34 
 
 UIsriNDMMSIOOJ). 
 
 “ How hot that boy will make himself 
 before we get to church,” said Sir Everard, 
 presently ; ‘ I really don’t know what he is 
 made of, to run on a day like this.” 
 
 “ He is a fine boy,” said Uncle Charlie, as 
 he watched the active little figure skipping 
 over the flower-beds, “ and seems as strong 
 and well as possible.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the baronet, “ Humphrey has 
 never had a day’s illness in his life. He 
 takes after my family, and is going to be as 
 strong and as tall as they.” 
 
 “ He is very like some of the old family 
 pictures t was looking at this morning ; the 
 same upright, well-built figure, and dark 
 eyes. Now Miles is altogether different, so 
 fair and slender.” 
 
 “ I fear Miles inherits his mother’s consti- 
 tution,” answered the baronet, in a troubled 
 tone. “He is very delicate, Charlie, and 
 the least chill brings on croup, or a nasty 
 little cough. I feel very anxious about him 
 sometimes.” 
 
 “ I daresay he will grow out of it. 1 lie- 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 35 
 
 aeve I had a delicate chest at his age, and 1 
 am never troubled with it now.” 
 
 They were some way down the avenue, 
 and Humphrey was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 “ I never wait for him,” said Sir Everard, 
 as he opened the park gates; “he always 
 turns up at last.” 
 
 They were half-way across the church- 
 yard when the boy overtook them, flushed 
 and breathless. 
 
 Uncle Charlie inwardly groaned at the 
 thoughts of so restless a mortal, as a next- 
 door neighbor, during two hours’ service 
 on a hot summer’s morning, and watched 
 his movements with some anxiety. 
 
 Little Humphrey took off his hat in the 
 porch, shook back his curly hair from his 
 hot forehead, and walked quietly into 
 church. 
 
 He led the way to the chancel, where was 
 the old fashioned family pew. 
 
 Here he came to a dead stop, for the bolt 
 3 f the door was high above his reach. 
 
 His uncle undid it for him, and was about 
 
36 
 
 MIS UJHD MRS TO OR. 
 
 to fiass in, thinking that of course the child 
 HTOuld sit by his father ; but to his surprise, 
 his little nephew pushed past him, went to 
 the very end of the long pew, and clamber- 
 ed up the high-cushioned seat opposite a 
 big prayer-book, which was surmounted 
 with the monogram “ Adelaide,” 
 
 The rustic congregation had often won- 
 dered why the father and son sat at so great 
 a distance from each other in the pew that 
 so seldom had any occupants but them- 
 selves ; and the old clergyman had at first 
 with difficulty suppressed a smile at the 
 view from the pulpit, of the broad shoul- 
 ders and bearded face of the six foot man 
 at one extremity, and the top of the small 
 brown head at the other. 
 
 But in vain had Sir Everard invited the 
 boy to sit nearer to him ; he preferred his 
 isolation. It had once occurred to the 
 widower that it might be because it had 
 been his wife’s place; but he never gave 
 Humphrey credit for much heart or senti- 
 ment, so he had settled it was a mere whim 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD, 
 
 37 
 
 and ne^er asked the boy any questions on 
 the subject. 
 
 The child himself had never confided to 
 anyone but Miles how he loved to feel he 
 was looking at the very same bit of the 
 painted window which his mother's eyes 
 had fallen upon ; that his feet were on the 
 very same footstool that her's had rested 
 on; and though the big prayer-book was 
 too heavy for him to open, he liked to put 
 his own little morocco volume upon it, 
 and to press his little fingers on the ‘‘ Ade- 
 laide" that formed the monogram of her 
 name. 
 
 He could not have explained what there 
 was about the old church that brought back 
 to him more than anything else the memory 
 of his mother, but so it was : and the usual- 
 ly restless boy would sit quiet in his corner, 
 and think of the first Sunday he had come 
 to church, when he had read out of the 
 same prayer-book with her, and listened to 
 her sweet voice as she joined in the Psalms 
 and Hymns. 
 
 4 
 
38 
 
 MIS VNV EBSTOOD 
 
 The service began, and Humphrej^ strug- 
 gled down from his seat. 
 
 The villagers had grown accustomed, 
 when the congregation stood up, to see the 
 baronet rise tall and broad from his seat, 
 and the little brown head of his son dis- 
 appear altogether; but Uncle Charlie was 
 by no means prepared for so complete a 
 collapse, and thought his nephew had fallen. 
 However, there he was, standing on the 
 ground, with his eyes fixed on his prayer- 
 book, and the walls of the pew towering 
 over him on every side. 
 
 “Why on earth does he not stand on a 
 stool?” was the young man’s inward re- 
 flection. 
 
 Truth to say, the temptation to gain three 
 feet in height, and get a view of what was 
 passing around, had at times assailed Hum- 
 phrey, but he felt sure his mother had never 
 stood on the stool, and so he resisted the 
 inclination. 
 
 And, indeed, if Lad}' Buncombe had 
 mounted the very high structure which 
 
MISUNDL'^STOOD. 
 
 39 
 
 went by the name of a hassock, the effect 
 would have been a trial to the gravity of 
 the congregation. 
 
 Humphrey followed the service pretty 
 well till the chanting began, and here he 
 always got wrong. Do what he would he 
 could not keep time with the rest, but al- 
 ways arrived at the end of the verse either 
 too early or too late. 
 
 By slow degrees he had discovered that 
 it did not do to sing straight through to the 
 end, because there were some bits and words 
 they sang over again ; but how he was ever 
 to discover which particular word or sen- 
 tence they were going to repeat, was to him 
 a perpetual puzzle. 
 
 He had a great admiration for the turns 
 and shakes with which the old clerk varied 
 the “Te Deum,” and had once indulged in 
 a mild imitation of the same ; till he caught 
 sight of his father frowning at him from the 
 other end of the pew. 
 
 When the hymn was given out, Uncle 
 Charlie saw Humphrey in great difficulties 
 
40 
 
 MISUNDJSBSTOOJ). 
 
 over finding his place, so he made a sign to 
 him to come and share his hymn-book; but, 
 with a most decided shake of the head. 
 Humphrey produced his own, and, without 
 moving from his place, held it out to have 
 his place found. 
 
 As the young man returned it to his neph- 
 ew, he saw on the fly-leaf the name Ade- 
 laide Buncombe,'' in the well-known hand- 
 writing of his dead sister; and he did justice 
 to the boy's motive. 
 
 When the old clergyman opened his ser- 
 mon-book, Humphrey settled himself in his 
 corner, in exact imitation of his father. 
 
 It always took him some time to copy the 
 position, and sometimes, when he had just 
 accomplished it. Sir Everard would uncross 
 his leg, or move a hand, and then he was 
 quite discomfited, and had to begin all over 
 again. 
 
 To-day, however, his attitude was quite 
 simple. Sir Everard folded his arms, crossed 
 his legs, and turning his head to the pulpit, 
 disposed himself to listen. 
 
M18UNDMSST00J). 
 
 4 * 
 
 Humphrey did the same. 
 
 Then rose the voice of the old clergyman 
 “ In the fourteenth chapter of the Book of 
 the Revelation of St. John, and at the sec- 
 ond verse, you will find the word of God 
 thus written : ‘ And I heard a voice from 
 heaven, as the voice of many waters, .... 
 and I heard the harpers harping with their 
 
 harps And they sang as it were a new 
 
 song, and no man could learn that song but 
 the hundred and forty and four thousand, 
 which were redeemed from the earth.’ ” . . . . 
 
 Humphrey did not often listen to the ser- 
 mon, but to-day it was all about Heaven, 
 and he liked to hear about that, because his 
 mother was there. 
 
 Feeble must human language ever be to 
 paint the glories of that far-off land ; but 
 when men touch upon subjects that so vitally 
 concern all, they carry their hearers with 
 them. 
 
 And so it was, that as the old preacher 
 warmed and glowed with his theme, the 
 hearts of the congregation warmed and 
 
 4 * 
 
42 
 
 MISUNDBMSTOOD. 
 
 'flowed too ; and there was silence and deep 
 ittention in the old church that day. 
 
 Even the village school children fidgeted 
 less th'*n usual, and one or two smock-frocks 
 who had settled themselves in their usual 
 attitude, of arms crossed on the back of the 
 bench in front of them, and heads cradled 
 thereupon, shook off the drowsiness conse- 
 quent on their long, hot walk to church, and 
 sitting up, gave their attention to the ser- 
 mon. For were not one and all bound to 
 the land the preacher was describing ? And 
 was there one who could say, “ What is this 
 me ?” 
 
 Only twice was even Humphrey's atten- 
 tion distracted. The first time was when 
 he saw his uncle take a pencil out of his 
 pocket, and underline something in his Bi- 
 ble. This was altogether a novel proceed- 
 ing; Humphrey had never seen it done be- 
 fore, and he felt it incumbent upon him to 
 sidle along the pcw-seat up to his uncle tc 
 investigate the mafter. 
 
 Uncle Charlie gi fe him his Bible, and he 
 
MlSdNDEJRlSTOOD. 
 
 43 
 
 saw that tlie text of the sermon was the pas« 
 sage marked 
 
 He inwardly resolved, as he regained his 
 corner by the shuffling process before men- 
 tioned, that he would in future bring a pen 
 cil to church and do likewise. 
 
 The next disturbance was of a more ex- 
 citing character. A vagrant wasp, after 
 disporting itself in different parts of the 
 church, made an inroad into the family pew, 
 and fixed upon Uncle Charlie as its victim. 
 Humphrey, attracted by the buzzing, turned 
 round, and saw his uncle engaged in desper 
 ate conflict. 
 
 Bobbing his head first to one side, and 
 then to the other, now drawing himself sud- 
 denly back, and now as suddenly swerving 
 forward, every now and then making a fran- 
 fic grab in the air with the back of his hand, 
 Uncle Charlie strove to escape from his as- 
 sailant in vain. 
 
 Humphrey tried hard to keep his coun. 
 tenance as he watched the encounter, but it 
 would not do. The merry smile broke out 
 
44 
 
 MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 from every corner of his face, and, in gircat 
 alarm, he crammed his hands into his mouth 
 to stifle the laughter he felt would, in 
 another moment, break out. 
 
 Uncle Charlie was already very angry at 
 being disqualified from listening to a sermon 
 he was enjoying by so paltry a cause as the 
 attacks of a wasp, and now, when he saw his 
 nephew’s condition, he grew desperate. 
 
 Seizing a hymn-book, he made a plunge 
 at his tormentor, and brought it to the 
 ground, where he crushed it to atoms with 
 his heel ; and with a sensation of great re- 
 lief saw Humphrey’s countenance return to 
 an expression of becoming composure, and 
 found himself in a condition to take up the 
 thread of the discourse. 
 
 Humphrey’s attention was once more 
 riveted on the sermon, and his little mind 
 strove to follow the clergyman as he spoke 
 of the white-robed thousands wandering by 
 the jasper sea in the golden Jerusalem ; that 
 great multitude which no man can num- 
 ber of all kindreds, and nations^ and 
 
UISUNDMBSTOOD. 
 
 45 
 
 tongues'” uniting their songs in the same 
 burst of glorious psalmody as the “ voice of 
 many waters,” and as the voice of mighty 
 thunderings, saying, “ Alleluia ; for the Lord 
 God omnipotent reigneth.” 
 
 “ ‘ Eye hath not seen,’ ” Concluded the 
 preacher, as if in despair of finding words to 
 express the inconceivable glory and beauty 
 of the halls of Sion, ‘ “ eye hath not seen, nor 
 ear heard, neither hath it entered into the 
 heart of man the things, which God hath 
 prepared for them that love Him.’ To Him, 
 who bought them for us with his own blood, 
 be glory for ever, and to countless ages.” 
 
 Then the organ broke forth, doors opened 
 and shut, the school-boys clattered down 
 from the organ loft, and the congregation 
 streamed out of church ; leaving the old 
 clergyman standing in his pulpit, gazing 
 thoughtfully at the retreating throng, and 
 wondering how much of what he had en- 
 deavored to impress upon their hearts 
 would take root downwards, and bear fruit 
 upwards 
 
MISUNDEMSTOOD. 
 
 46 
 
 Sir Everard Buncombe remained sitting 
 some time after the service was over, look- 
 ing at Humphrey’s earnest face, and won 
 dering what the boy was thinking of. When 
 the clergyman had retired to the vestry, he 
 rose, and led the way out. 
 
 Softly blew the summer breezes on little 
 Humphrey’s face as he stepped out into the 
 porch, and the calm beauty of the summer 
 morning was in perfect harmony with the 
 turn which the sermon had given to his 
 thoughts. All around was the beautifully- 
 wooded country, lying calm and still under 
 the cloudless sky. Perhaps if his vague 
 ideas could have taken shape, they would 
 have formed themselves into some such ex- 
 pression as — “ Can heaven be fairer than 
 this?” 
 
 But Humphrey’s was not a nature that 
 could long remain absorbed in thought, and 
 he was soon skipping along the road in front 
 of his father and uncle, and kicking up 
 clouds of dust with his best Sunday boots. 
 
 At the park gates they found Miles and 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 47 
 
 Virginie. The latter joined the other ser- 
 vants in the road, and the two little brothers 
 walked on together. 
 
 “ Did the clergyman take any of my texts 
 to-day for his sermon ? ” asked the younger 
 one eagerly, as he took hold of Humphrey’s 
 hand. (Miles was learning the beatitudes, and 
 asked the question regularly every Sunday.) 
 
 “ No, not one of them. He got a text out 
 of the very last bit of the whole Bible — 
 ‘ The Revelation.’ ” 
 
 “ That must be the bit Virginie never will 
 read to me. She says I should not under- 
 stand it. Do you understand the Revela- 
 tions, Humphie ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” returned Humphrey, promptly. 
 
 “Virginie doesn’t,” said Miles rather 
 puzzled, “ and she says very few grown-up 
 people do.” 
 
 “ Virginie is French,” retorted Humphrey, 
 “ and the Revelations are written in English. 
 Of course she can’t understand them as well 
 as I do. I'here goes a rabbit Let’s rue 
 after it. 
 
48 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 And Miles, perfectly satisfied with th« 
 explanation, followed his brother, panting 
 into the fern. 
 
 In the afternoon the gentlemen went again 
 to church, and as Virginie was at liberty to 
 do the same, the children were left under 
 the care of the housemaid. 
 
 Humphrey was learning a hymn, and, for 
 once in his life, giving his whole attention 
 to his task. 
 
 Miles, sitting on the housemaid’s lap, was 
 turning over the leaves of the “ Peep of 
 Day,” and gleaning his ideas of sacred cha- 
 racters from the illustrations of that well- 
 known work. He stopped in great amaze- 
 ment before the representation of Lazarus 
 rising from the tomb, and demanded an 
 explanation. 
 
 Jane, who had an idea that everything 
 connected with death should be most care- 
 fully concealed from children, answered 
 evasively that it was nothing, and tried to 
 turn over the page, but boys are not so 
 easily baulked. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 49 
 
 Had Miles been a girl, he would probably 
 have oeen satisfied to pass over the picture 
 without further inquiry ; girls’ minds take 
 a very superficial grasp of a subject ; they 
 are content to get at the shell of knowledge, 
 and to leave the kernel untasted. Being a 
 boy. Miles raised his large, grave eyes to 
 Jane’s face with an inquiring expression. 
 
 “ Why don’t you tell me ?” he asked, lay- 
 ing a detaining hand on the leaf ; “ I want 
 to know all about it. What is that great 
 hole? and why is the man all sewed up in 
 white ?” 
 
 Jane, driven into a corner, admitted that 
 the hole was a grave. 
 
 “ But, lor ! master Miles,” added she, 
 “ you don’t know nothing about them things, 
 and if you want to know you must ask your 
 pa !” 
 
 “ Of course I know people die,” said Miles,, 
 simply, “ because my mamma’s dead ; so 
 you’re quite wrong, Jane, to say I don’t un- 
 derstand those sort of things. I know all 
 about it. When people die they are packed 
 
50 
 
 MISUNDSMSTOOD. 
 
 up in a box and put into the ground, and 
 then if they’ve been good, God will come 
 some day and unpack them.” 
 
 Humphrey had joined the group jmst in 
 time to hear the end of the explanation, 
 and he met Jane’s eye and smile with all 
 the conscious superiority of his three years 
 advance in religious knowledge. 
 
 “ If mother were here, Miles,” he whis- 
 pered, “ she would explain to you much 
 better than that. There was something she 
 used to tell me about our dead body being 
 like a seed, that is, put into the ground, but 
 will turn into a beautiful flower some day. 
 Only I can’t remember it quite like she said 
 it,” he added, sighing, “ I wish I could.” 
 
 “ Oh, Humphie !” said little Miles eager- 
 ly, holding up the book, “ can you remember 
 what she used to say about this picture ?” 
 
 But Humphrey taxed his memory in 
 vain. It was all so dim, so confused, he 
 could not remember sufficiently clearly to 
 tell the story, so Jane was called upon tg 
 vead it. 
 
MISVNDSnSTOOD. 
 
 5 » 
 
 Now Jane left out her h’s, and did not 
 mind her stops, so the beautiful story of the 
 raising of Lazarus must have lost much of 
 its charm; but still the children listened 
 with attention, for those who have nothing 
 better must put up with what they have. 
 Poor little opening minds, depending thus 
 early on the instructions of an ignorant 
 housemaid! forced to forego, in the first 
 budding of youth, those lessons in Divine 
 truth that came so lovingly, and withal so 
 forcibly, from the lips of a tender motExex ; 
 those lessons which linger on the heart of 
 the full-grown man long after the lips that 
 pronounced them are silenced for ever. 
 
 Depend upon it, association has a great 
 power, and those passages in the Bible 
 which bring to children most clearly thu 
 image of their mother, are those which, ir 
 after life, are loved and valued most. 
 
 And surely those childish memories ow« 
 something of their charm to the recollec 
 tion of the quiet, well - modulated reading, 
 the clear, refined enunciation ; the repose 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD, 
 
 52 
 
 of the attitude in the sofa or chair, the 
 white hand that held the book, with, it may 
 be, the flashing of the diamond ring in the 
 light, as the fingers turned over the pages ! 
 
 Even as I write, I see rising from the 
 darkness before me a vision of a mother 
 and a child. I see the soft eyes meeting 
 those of the little listener on the stool, at 
 her knee. I see the earnestness pervading 
 every line of the beautiful face. I almost 
 hear the tones of the gentle voice, which, 
 while reducing the mysteries of Divine 
 truth to the level of the baby comprehen- 
 sion, carry with them the unmistakable im- 
 press of her own belief in the things of 
 which she is telling : the certainty that the 
 !ove and trust she is describing are no mere 
 abstract truths to her, but that they are life 
 of her life, and breath of her breath ! 
 
 And I see the child’s eyes glow and ex- 
 pand under her earnestness, as the little 
 mind catches a refraction of her enthusiasm. 
 Is this a picture or is it a reality? Have I 
 brought up to any one a dimly-remembered 
 
MISTTNDERSTOOJ). 
 
 53 
 
 vision ? Or is it purely idealistic and fanci- 
 
 ful? 
 
 I do not know; and even as I gaze, the 
 picture has melted into the darkness from 
 which I conjured it, and I see it no more ! 
 
 “ Boys,” sounded Sir Everard’s voice at 
 the bottom of the nursery stairs, “your 
 uncle and I are going out for a walk. No 
 one need come with us who would rather 
 not.” 
 
 There could be but one answer to such 
 an appeal, and a rush and scamper ensued. 
 
 It was the usual Sunday afternoon rou 
 tine, the stables and the farm, and then 
 across the meadows to inspect the hay 
 ricks, and through the corn-fields to a cer- 
 tain gate that commanded the finest view 
 on the estate. 
 
 “ If only this weather lasts another fort 
 light,” said Sir Everard, as his eyes wan- 
 lered over golden fields, “ I think we shall 
 have a good harv ist, eh, Charlie ?” 
 
 “I am sure we shall,” came from Hum- 
 phrey, who always had an opinion on every 
 
54 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 subject, and never lost an opportunity of 
 obtruding it on public attention ; “ we shall 
 have such a lot of corn we shan’t know 
 what to do with it.” 
 
 “ Well, I have never found that to be the 
 case yet,” said his father ; “ but if the first 
 part of your prediction prove true, we will 
 have a Harvest Home and a dance, and 
 you and Miles shall lead off, ‘ Up the mid- 
 dle and down again,’ with the prettiest 
 little girls you can find in the village.” 
 
 “ I know who I shall dance with,” said 
 Humphre}^ balancing himself on the top of 
 the gate, “ but she’s not a little girl, she’s 
 quite old, nearly twenty I daresay, and she’s 
 not pretty either. I don’t care to dance 
 with little girls, its babyish.” 
 
 “ Who is the happy lady, Humphrey ?” 
 asked Uncle Charlie. 
 
 “ She is not a lady at all,” said Hum- 
 phrey, indignantly, “ she’s Dolly, the laundry 
 maid, and wears pattens and turned up 
 sleeves, and her arms are as red as hei 
 cheeks. Dolly’s not the least like a lady." 
 
MlSVNLERSTnoj). 
 
 5S 
 
 ' Except oil Sundays,” put in little Miles 
 ■ because then she’s got her sleeves down, 
 And is very smart. I saw Dolly going to 
 church this morning, with boots all coverea 
 with little vrhite buttons.” 
 
 “ That does not make her a lady,” said the 
 elder boy contemptuously. “ It is no use 
 trying to explain to you. Miles, what a lady 
 is because you never see any.” 
 
 “ Not Mrs. Jones, the steward’s wife ?” 
 suggested Miles timidly, and feeling he was 
 treading on dangerous ground. 
 
 “ No,” said Humphrey, “ she’s not a real 
 lady, not what I call a lady. You see, 
 Miles,” he added, sinking his voice, and 
 drawing nearer to his brother, so that he 
 might not be overheard, “ I shall never be 
 able to make you understand, because you 
 can’t remember mother.” 
 
 “ No,” said poor little Miles, meekly, “ I 
 suppose not.” 
 
 This argument was, as he knew by expe* 
 rience, conclusive, and he was always com- 
 pletely silenced by it. 
 
56 
 
 MISVNDERSTOO.D. 
 
 “Ana who will my little Miles choose for 
 a partner?” broke in Sir Everard ; “it must 
 be some very small girl, I think.” 
 
 “ I should like the little girl at the 
 lodge, please, father, because she’s the very 
 only little girl I know who is smaller than 
 me.” 
 
 “Very well: then you are both provided. 
 Charlie, you must come down to the Harvest 
 Home, and see ‘ Up the middle and down 
 again Humphrey struggling with his sub- 
 stantial partner, and Miles bringing up the 
 rear with the ‘ very only little girl he knows 
 who is smaller than him.’ ” The father’s eye 
 rested smiling on his two children as he 
 pictured the sight to himself. 
 
 “And when may it be ?” asked Humphrey. 
 “ Father, please settle a day for the harvest 
 to begin.” 
 
 “ When the yellow corn is almost brown, 
 you may settle a day for the harvest,” 
 answered his father. “ I have a reaping- 
 machine this year, and so it will soon be cut 
 when once they begin.” 
 
MISUNDEBSTO OD. 
 
 57 
 
 " I shall come every day to these fields 
 and see how it is getting on,” said Miles. 
 
 “ I know a much quicker way,” said Hum 
 phrey, jumping down from the gate, and 
 pulling up several ears of corn by the roots. 
 
 “ I shall have them up in the nursery, and 
 see them ripen every day.” 
 
 “ Why, you foolish boy,” said his father, 
 “ you have picked them too soon, they will 
 never ripen now.” 
 
 Humphrey looked ruefully at his ears ol 
 corn. “ I quite forgot,” said he. 
 
 “ They will never ripen now,” repeated 
 little Miles, sorrowfully. 
 
 “ Never mind, Miles,” said Humphrey, “ 1 
 will plant them in the sunniest part of our 
 own garden, where the soil is much better 
 than here, and where, I daresay, they will 
 grow much finer and better than if they had 
 been left to ripen with the rest. Perhaps 
 they will thank me some day for having 
 pulled them up out ol the rough field, and 
 planted them in such a more beautiful 
 place.” 
 
58 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 “ Perhaps they will,” breathed litt e M Jes, 
 clasping his hands with pleasure at the idea. 
 
 Miles was leaning against the gate, look- 
 ing up admiringly at his brother, and Hum 
 phrey was sitting on the topmost bar, with 
 the ears of corn in his hand. 
 
 “ Let us go,” said Sir Everard, suddenly ; 
 “ it is intensely hot here, and I am longing 
 to get under those limes in the next field.” 
 
 The little boys climbed over the gate, and 
 ran on to the indicated spot, followed more 
 leisurely by their elders. 
 
 Sir Everard and Uncle Charlie threw 
 themselves down on the grass in the shade, 
 and the children, seating themselves by their 
 father, begged for a story. 
 
 “ Sailors are the men for stories,” was his 
 answer; “you had better ask your uncle.” 
 
 Uncle Charlie proved a charming story 
 teller. He told them of sharks and croco 
 diles, of boar-hunting, and of wonderful ad 
 ventures by land and sea. 
 
 The children hung on his every word 
 
 The shadows grew long, and the sun be- 
 
MIS UNDEBSTO OD. 
 
 59 
 
 gan to a nk over the cornfields, and stii. they 
 wer e absorbed in listening, and their father 
 in watching their sparkling eyes and varying 
 countenances. 
 
 “ Come,” said Sir Everard at last, jumping 
 up, “ no more stories, or we shall be here all 
 night. It is past six, and Virginie will be 
 wondering what has become of us.” 
 
 “ Oh !” said Humphrey, drawing a long 
 breath, as he descended from those heights 
 of wonder to the trifling details of every- 
 day life, recalled by the mention of Virginie, 
 “ how delicious it has been ! I hope, father, 
 you will let me be a sailor when I grow 
 up?” 
 
 “ W ell, I don’t think that will exactly be 
 your vocation,” answered Sir Everard ; “ but 
 there is plenty of time before you.” 
 
 “ Me, too,” said little Miles ; “ I want to 
 be a sailor too.” 
 
 “ You, my darling, ’ said Sir Everard, 
 Fondly ; “ no, not you ; 1 couldn’t spare you 
 my sweet litt.e fellow. ’ 
 
 And he stooped, as he spoke, to kiss the 
 
6o 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 little face that was uplifted so pleadingly to 
 his, the lips that were always so ready to 
 respond to his caresses. 
 
 Humphrey had turned away his head, 
 and was gazing intently at his ears of 
 corn. 
 
 Is he jealous, I wonder thought Uncle 
 Charlie, peering at the little face under the 
 straw hat, and wondering whether it was a 
 tear he saw shining among the long dark 
 eyelashes. 
 
 But before he could make up his mind if 
 it were so, the child’s eyes were sparkling 
 with excitement over a curious creature 
 with a thousand legs, which had crawled 
 out of the corn in his hand. 
 
 And now jump up, boys, and come 
 home.” Sir Everard, as he spoke, picked 
 up his cane, and taking his brother-in-law’s 
 arm, walked slowly on. ‘‘We shall have all 
 these feats reproduced, Charlie, of that I 
 am quite sure. Virginie has a nice time be- 
 fore her.” 
 
 There was very little tea eaten that even- 
 
MIS UNDUBSTO OJ). 
 
 6i 
 
 .ng, the children were in such a hurry to gel 
 down again to the delectable anecdotes. 
 
 But Sir Everard took alarm at Miles’s 
 flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and would 
 allow no more exciting stories so close upon 
 bed-time. 
 
 “ Will you finish about the crocodile to- 
 morrow?” asked Humphrey, creeping up 
 his uncle’s leg, as he came to wish him good- 
 night. 
 
 “ To-morrow I go, my boy,” he answered. 
 
 “ Going to - morrow !” said Humphrey. 
 “ What a very short visit !” 
 
 “ What a very short visit !” echoed Miles, 
 who always thought it incumbent on him to 
 say the same thing as his brother. 
 
 “ I will pay you a longer visit next time,” 
 said Uncle Charlie, as he kissed the twc 
 little faces. 
 
 “ But when will next time be ?” persisted 
 Humphrey. 
 
 “Yes! when will next time be?” repeated 
 Miles. 
 
 “ Ah ! when indeed ?” said Uncle Charlie 
 6 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 « HAVE got so many plans in my 
 
 -1- head, that I think I shall burst,” said 
 Humphrey to Miles the next morning, as 
 they stood on the door-steps, watching the 
 dog-cart vanishing in the distance, on its 
 way to the station, with their father and 
 uncle. “ Some of the things Uncle Charlie 
 was telling us about would be quite easy 
 for us to do. You wouldn’t be afraid, I 
 suppose, to climb up the big tree overhang- 
 ing the pond where the water-lilies are ?” 
 
 “ No,” said Miles, rather doubtfully, “ not 
 if you went on first and gave me your hand ; 
 but that tree is a long way off — wouldn’t 
 one of the trees in the orchard do ?” 
 
 “ Oh, no ! it wouldn’t be half the fun. 
 Dont you remember the man in the story 
 
 (6a) 
 
MISUNDMBSTOOD. 
 
 63 
 
 crawled along the branch that stretched 
 over the water? Well, this tree has a 
 branch hanging right over the pond ; and I 
 want to crawl along it, like he did.” 
 
 “ Hadn’t we better ask Virginie if we may 
 go all that way alone ?” suggested Miles, in 
 the vain hope of putting off the evil mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Humphrey, however, did not see the force 
 of this argument, and so they started off. 
 
 It was a very hot day, and after they had 
 got out of the farm-yard there was no shade 
 at all. 
 
 Humphrey skipped through the meadows 
 and over the gates, and Miles followed him 
 as quickly as he could, but the sun was very 
 hot on his head, and he soon got wearied 
 and fell back. 
 
 Humphrey did not perceive how languid- 
 ly his little brother was following him, till a 
 faint cry from behind reached him. 
 
 “Humphie,//m^^stop; I can’t keep up to 
 you.” 
 
 Instantly he ran back. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 64 
 
 '■ I’m so tired, Humphie, and sc hot, shal 
 we go home ?” 
 
 “ Go home ! why we are close to the pond 
 now. Look, Miles, it is only across that 
 meadow, and the corn-field beyond.” 
 
 Miles followed the direction of his broth- 
 er’s finger, and his eye rested ruefully on 
 the expanse lying before him, where the sun 
 was scorching up everything. 
 
 “ I’ll try, Humphie,” he said, resignedly 
 
 “ I tell you what !” exclaimed Humphrey, 
 “ I’ll carry you !” 
 
 Miles felt a little nervous at the prospect, 
 but he did not like to object. 
 
 “ Just get over the gate,” continued Hum- 
 phrey, “ and then I’ll carry you across the 
 field, and we’ll soon be by the pond, where 
 it will be as cool as possible.” 
 
 Over the gate they scrambled, and then 
 the elder boy disposed himself to take his 
 httle brother in his arms. How shall 1 
 describe the intense discomfort of the cir 
 curastances under which Miles now found 
 himself ! 
 
MlStTKDlSItafOOl). 
 
 6s 
 
 One of Humphrey's arms was so tightly 
 round his neck, that he almost felt as if he 
 were choking, and the hand of the other 
 grasped one of his legs with a gripe which 
 amounted almost to pain ; and still there 
 was a feeling of insecurity about his position 
 which, already very strong while Humphrey 
 was standing still, did not diminish when he 
 began to move. 
 
 Humphrey started with a run, but his 
 speed soon slackened, and grave doubts be- 
 gan to arise even in his own mind as to the 
 accomplishment of the task he had under- 
 taken. 
 
 However, he staggered on. But when 
 presently his long-suffering load began to 
 show signs of slipping, Humphrey tightened 
 his grasp to such a degree, that Miles, who 
 till now had endured in silence, could endure 
 no longer, and he uttered a faint cry for 
 mercy. 
 
 At the same moment, Humphrey caught 
 his foot in a rabbit hole, and both boys 
 rolled over together. Peals of laughter from 
 6 * 
 
66 MISVSDSnSTOOD. 
 
 Humphre} followed the catastrophe, btiH 
 Miles did not quite enter into the spirit of 
 the joke. He was hot and tired, poor little 
 fellow, and began to implore his brother to 
 take him under the neighboring hedge to 
 rest. 
 
 Humphrey readily consented, and led him 
 out of the baking sun. 
 
 “ Perhaps we had better give it up,” said 
 he, sighing, as he sat down by Miles in the 
 shade, “and try again in the cool of the 
 evening. You could do it, couldn’t you, if 
 it were not for the heat ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes,” said Miles, eagerly. With a 
 respite in view, he was ready to agree to 
 anything. 
 
 “ Very well,” said Humphrey, “ then we’ll 
 give it up and come again this evening afte 
 tea. I declare,” he added, suddenly break- 
 ing off, “ there’s a mushroom out there !” 
 
 He was off in a moment, and returned in 
 triumph “ Isn’t it a lovely one. Miles ? How 
 fresh it smells and how beautiful it peels. 
 If father were at home, we’d have had it 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 bMoked for his dinner, he is so fond Ox mush- 
 rooms.” 
 
 “ It wouldn’t keep good till Friday, I 
 suppose, for the wild men’s dinner party ?’ 
 enquired Miles. 
 
 “ One would be no use,” answered Hum- 
 phrey, “ but we might come here some 
 morning and get a lot if we brought a 
 basket. I’ll tell you what, we’ll get up 
 quite, quite early to-morrow, and come and 
 have a regular mushroom hunt. Won’t it 
 be fun !” 
 
 “ I’m afraid Virginie would not be awake 
 to dress me,” observed Miles. 
 
 “ Oh, never mind Virginie !” said Hum- 
 phrey, “ I’ll dress you. Miles ; I don’t think 
 Virginie would care to get up so early, and 
 it would be a pit}' to wake her, poor thing ! 
 She goes to bed late, and is so tired in the 
 morning.” 
 
 “ So she is, poor thing !” said Miles. 
 
 “ And besides, you know,” continued 
 Humphrey, “ she always thinks something 
 dreadful will happen if she doesn’t come 
 
68 
 
 MIS UNDEBSTO OB. 
 
 with US, and it would be a pity to frighten 
 her for nothing.” 
 
 “ So it would ; a great pity,” repeated 
 Miles. “But what’s that noise, Humphie? 
 Is it a cock crowing or a bull roaring?” 
 
 Both children listened. 
 
 There vras many a sound to be heard 
 round about on that summer morning ; the 
 buzzing of bees as they flitted about among 
 the clover, the chirrup of the grasshoppers 
 in the long grass, the crowing of a cock 
 from the farm, and the lowing of cattle in 
 the distance, but that which had attracted 
 Miles’ attention was none of all these. It 
 was the gradually approaching sound of a 
 female voice, which, as its owner neared the 
 meadow, assumed to the two little listeners 
 the familiar tones of the French language. 
 
 “ M. Humphrey ! M. Miles ! M. Hum- 
 phrey ! ou etes-vous done ?” 
 
 “ It’s Virginie !” they both exclaimed, 
 jumping up. 
 
 Virginie it was ; and great w as the horror 
 she expressed at their having strayed so far 
 
MISUNDERSTC on, 
 
 h ai) home, at the state of heat in which she 
 found Miles, and at his having been taken 
 such a long walk. 
 
 Many were the reproaches she heaped 
 upon Humphrey as they walked back to the 
 house for having caused her such a hunt in 
 the heat of the sun, and her nerves such a 
 shock as they had experienced when she 
 had not found him and his brother in their 
 usual haunts. 
 
 Lastly she brought him up with the in 
 quiry, Et vos lemons ! Savez vous quhl est 
 midi passe?'' 
 
 Humphrey's ideas of time were always of 
 the vaguest order, and when anything of so 
 exciting a nature as this morning's expedi- 
 tion came in the way, hours were not in his 
 calculations. 
 
 He did not mend matters much by saying 
 he should have thought it had been about 
 half-past nine. 
 
 Virginie maintained a dignified silence 
 after this explanation, till they reached the 
 hall door ; and it now being too near dinner 
 
70 
 
 MIS UN B ERSIOOD. 
 
 time to make it woith while for Humphrey 
 to get out his books, she informed him that 
 he would have to do all his lessons in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 This was perhaps more of a punishment 
 to Miles than to Humphrey. 
 
 Lessons were no trouble to Humphrey 
 when once his attention was fixed on them ; 
 and if it were not for the penance of having 
 to sit still in a chair, he did not really dis- 
 like them. But to Miles, his brother's les- 
 son hours were times of dreary probation. 
 He was not allowed to speak to him, or dis- 
 tract his attention in any way ; and had to 
 sit turning over the leaves of a picture book, 
 or building a solitary castle of bricks, in 
 some part of the room where Humphrey 
 could not see him without regularly turning 
 his head round. 
 
 Humphrey made a faint attempt after 
 dinner to persuade Virginie to let him do 
 his lessons in the garden, under the big tree 
 on the lawn ; but it was instantly negatived. 
 In the nursery, with his back turned to 
 
MI8UNDE1J18T00D. 
 
 7 * 
 
 Miles, she did sometimes succeed in concen- 
 trating his attention on his reading ; but she 
 knew too much of the all-powerful attrac 
 lions out of doors to comply with his pro 
 posal. Not to mention the chance of Carle 
 suddenly jumping upon the book, or the 
 tempting vicinity of the gardeners with the 
 mowing machine, there was always risk to 
 his powers of attention in chance butterflies 
 and humble bees, the dropping of a blossom 
 from the tree above, or the sudden advent 
 of a stray water-wag-tail. 
 
 Humphrey did not press the question, 
 and opened his book with a slight sigh, for 
 which Virginie could not account. 
 
 Was there a memory floating in the child’s 
 mind of a time when the same request had 
 never been made in vain ? — of summer after 
 noons, dimly remembered, when, sitting by 
 his mother’s side under the same old tree, 
 he had learnt to read words of one syllable 
 out of the baby primer on her knee ? — and 
 when, if his attention had sometimes wan- 
 dered to the summer sights and sounds 
 
72 
 
 MISUJSrDUHJSTOOD. 
 
 around him, her gentle Now, my darling 
 tr}' and attend to your reading,'' would in- 
 stantly recall it. And then the quick shut- 
 ting up of the book when the specified stage 
 had been reached, the fond kiss of dismissal, 
 and the joyous Now run away, my child, 
 and play to your heart's content !" as if she 
 rejoiced as much as he did that he should 
 be released from his temporary bondage, 
 and disport himself in the sunshine once 
 more ! 
 
 Great stillness now reigned in the nursery 
 for more than an hour. It was only broken 
 by the monotonous drone of Humphrey's 
 reading, and Virginie's occasional ^‘Tenez-. 
 vous bien. Otez done les bras de la table 
 Ne donnez pas des coups de pied a la chaise" 
 — varied by the fall of Miles's bricks, as he 
 knocked down one completed castle after 
 another, in despair at not being able to call 
 upon his brother to admire them. 
 
 As the time at which Humphrey's release 
 was due approached, and there were no 
 signs of moving on Virginie's part, Miles 
 
MISVNDMnSTOOD. 
 
 73 
 
 gave vent, at intervals, to deep-drawn 
 sighs. 
 
 It came at last; Virginie shut up the 
 book, and put a mark in it, and Humphrey( 
 with a loud “ Hurrah,” dashed his chair 
 suddenly back, and turned head over heels 
 on the floor. 
 
 Miles threw himself upon him, and the 
 two rolled over and over each other, in the 
 ‘ abandon” of perfect enjoyment. 
 
 “We’ll start for the pond directly after 
 tea,” whispered Humphrey. 
 
 But Virginie had other plans in view, and 
 to the children’s disgust they were taken 
 for a walk with her, to visit the wife of one 
 of the farmers. 
 
 The long confinement in the farmer’s 
 kitchen, while Virginie and the farmer’s wife 
 talked about bonnets and trimmings, was 
 very wearisome to the two boys. Miles 
 found some compensation in the discovery 
 of a tiny kitten on the hearth ; and Hum- 
 phrey, mounting on a chair, played with the 
 trigger of the farmer’s gun which hung over 
 7 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
74 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 the mantelpiece, “just to see whether it was 
 loaded or not.” 
 
 They did not get home till Miles’s bed- 
 time. 
 
 Humphrey established himself on the edge 
 of the bath, and watched Virginie carefully 
 as she undressed his little brother, that he 
 might learn how Miles’s vestments succeed- 
 ed each other; for he felt a little doubtful 
 of his own powers as a valet. 
 
 His face lengthened considerably when 
 he saw how many strings there would be 
 to tie. 
 
 He drew nearer, in his eagerness, as Vir- 
 ginie untied them one after the other; and 
 began considering how to do the untying 
 process backwards, and wondering whether 
 it would produce the desired result. 
 
 “ Don’t be in such a hurry,” he called out, 
 in his excitement, as she pulled out the last 
 tie, “ I didn’t half see.” 
 
 Virginie’s look of astonishment recalled 
 him to himself, and he retreated hastily to 
 his seat on the edge of the bath. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 75 
 
 Fortunately for him, she was so taken up 
 with reproving him for speaking to her in 
 English, that she foigot to inquire iti^o his 
 extraordinary interest w the tape strings. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 L I FTLE MILES was dreaming o a 
 green bank, on the top of which r.e 
 and Humphrey were seated, making daisy- 
 chains, when suddenly the midges began to 
 fly in his face in a most disagreeable manner. 
 Buzz, buzz, they came up against his cheeks 
 like hard lumps, and he couldn’t drive them 
 away. He turned to Humphrey for assis- 
 tance, and such a strong gust of wind blew 
 upon one side of his head and face that he 
 fell over on his side and began to slip down 
 the hill. He clutched hold of his brother to 
 save himself, and woke — to find neither bank 
 nor daisies out that Humphrey was drag- 
 ging him out of bed. 
 
 ^^At last!” whispered Humphrey. 
 thought you never were going to wake V ve 
 (76) 
 
MTSUNDEBSTOOJ). 
 
 77 
 
 tried everything ! I’ve thrown bits of biscuit 
 in your face, I’ve blown into your ear, I’a'C 
 shaken you till I was tired ; I couldn’t 
 speak, you know, for fear of waking Virginie. 
 Be very quiet, for she’s moved once or 
 twice.” 
 
 “But what do you want, Humphie?” 
 asked Miles, rubbing his eyes. “ Why do you 
 get out of bed in the middle of the night ? ” 
 
 “ Middle of the night ! ” echoed Hum- 
 phrey, “ why it’s broad daylight ! Look at 
 the hole in the shutter, how sunny it is out 
 of doors. I’ve been lying awake ever since 
 the cock crew, watching the light get 
 brighter and brighter, and ” 
 
 But before he had concluded his sentence 
 his weary little brother had settled himself 
 again on his pillow. 
 
 “Miles! Miles!” whispered Humphrey 
 in despair, stooping over him. 
 
 “ Good night, Humphie,” said Miles, 
 sleepily. 
 
 “Why, you’re going to sleep again, ’ said 
 Humphrey in his ear. 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 78 
 
 “ No, I m not,” said the child, dreamily. 
 
 “ Yes, you are ! ” exclaimed Humphrey 
 forgetting, in his excitement, that he was 
 speaking out loud. 
 
 “ No, I’m not,” repeated Miles, trying to 
 seem very wide-awake : but the fringed eye- 
 lids drooped over the heavy eyes, and he 
 tried to keep them open in vain. 
 
 An ominous stir from the big bed pre- 
 vented Humphrey from answering, and he 
 watched Virginie nervously, as she rolled 
 over from one side to the other. 
 
 Miles took advantage of the pause and fell 
 asleep again directly. 
 
 “Wake up! wake up!” said Humphrey, 
 returning to the charge. 
 
 Miles sat up in bed. 
 
 “ What is the matter, Humphie?” 
 
 “ Nothing’s the matter, but don’t you re- 
 member our delicious plan to get up early 
 and pick mushrooms ? ” 
 
 Miles remembered now, but the plan did 
 not seem so delicious now, somehow, as it 
 had done the day before. 
 
• MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 79 
 
 “ Get «p now, Humphie ? ” he said de- 
 jectedly. 
 
 “Yes,” answered his energetic brother, 
 “ you won’t mind it when we’re once out in 
 the fields. I’m going to dress you before 1 
 dress myself, so be quick and jump up. 
 You’ll feel all right when you’re out of bed.” 
 
 Little Miles looked half inclined to cry. 
 
 “ I’m so sleepy,” he said wistfully. 
 
 “You’ll be better soon,” said Humphrey, 
 pulling off the bed-clothes. 
 
 “ Let’s go to-morrow instead, Humphie.” 
 Humphrey had turned round to get Miles’s 
 boots and stockings, and did not hear this 
 last proposal. When he came back to the 
 bed-side, to his horror. Miles had lain down 
 again. 
 
 “ What is to be done ? ” he exclaimed in 
 despair. A sudden thought struck him, and 
 he went quickly off to the other end of the 
 room. 
 
 Miles was not quite asleep, and attracted 
 by a clatter, he raised himself to see what 
 his brother was about. 
 
8o 
 
 MlSTTlfDERSTOOD. 
 
 “ What are )'ou going to do, Humphie?’ 
 he exclaimed, as he saw Humphrey coming 
 slowly across the room with a great jug of 
 water in his arms. 
 
 “ Why you see,” said Humphrey in a loud 
 whisper, and rather out of breath, for he 
 was oppressed by the weight of the water 
 jug, “the best way to wake people is to 
 pour a jug of cold water suddenly on their 
 face, and so ” 
 
 “ Oh ! I’m quite awake now, Humphie ; 
 indeed,” interrupted Miles, getting out of 
 bed in a great hurry, “ you needn’t, really. 
 Look at my eyes.” And in great trepidation 
 the child opened his large blue eyes to their 
 fullest extent. 
 
 Humphrey was satisfied, and put the jug 
 down. Miles would have been happier to 
 see it safely replaced on the distant wash- 
 hand stand, and offered to help to carry it 
 bfck, if his brother found it too heavy. 
 
 He was not much reassured by Hum- 
 phrey’s answer : 
 
 “ It’ll do very well there ; and, besides, 
 
Mlb JNDMJiSTOOD. 
 
 8i 
 
 it’s better to have H near in case you ge,' 
 sleepy again.” 
 
 The toilette now began 'n earnest: Hum 
 phrey gave Miles his stockings to put on 
 while he proceeded to dress himself, and wa 
 all ready but his jacket, when turning round 
 he found Miles in great perplexity, with his 
 toe unaccountably fixed in the place where 
 his heel ought to be. 
 
 “ I can’t get it out, Humphie ! ” 
 
 “ I must do it, I suppose,” said the elder 
 boy ; and he seized the leg, nearly upsetting 
 Miles as he did so, and proceeded to put on 
 the stocking wrong side out. 
 
 “ It doesn’t matter the least,” he assured 
 Miles, who was rather discomfited at the 
 bits of thread, and general unfinished ap- 
 pearance of his leg. But what did matter 
 was, that the walking-boots had not, of 
 course, come up from being cleaned. 
 
 “Never mind,” said Humphrey; “shoes 
 will do.” 
 
 On came the delicate child’s thin in-door 
 |hoes, without any reference to the heavy 
 
82 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 dew and long grass attendant upon musli< 
 room hunting. Miles was then divested of 
 his night-gown, and his under-clothes put 
 
 on. 
 
 All went on smoothly till the first tying 
 of strings, and here Humphrey was com- 
 pletely at fault. It was no use. 
 
 “ Don’t you think you could hold all youi 
 things together?” he suggested; “and then 
 I’ll pop on your blouse quick, and make the 
 band very tight, to keep it all steady ? ” 
 
 Miles agreed to this plan, as he did to all 
 others, more especially as he found the al- 
 ternative was the insertion of a huge pin, 
 with which Humphrey offered to “ make it 
 all comfortable !” 
 
 “ I don’t know how it is,” said little Miles, 
 shaking himself about, “ but I don’t feel as 
 warm as usual.” 
 
 “ Don’t shake like that. Miles,” exclaimed 
 Humphrey ; “it’ll all come down, you know. 
 Get your hat, and let’s come along quietly.” 
 
 “ Why ! I have had no bath!” said Miles, 
 stopping short. 
 
MISUSDERSTOOD. 
 
 83 
 
 “ No more have I,” echoed Humphrey 
 * 1 quite forgot ! And what’s this ?” he 
 added, picking up a small flannel shirt. 
 
 “ Why, it’s mine,” said Miles. 
 
 “ So it is,” rejoined Humphrey, “ of 
 course; that’s why you felt cold. Well, 
 we can’t wait now. Come along: be very 
 quiet.” And the two boys stepped quietly 
 out of the room, and of course left the door 
 wide open behind them. 
 
 It was not much more than half-past five 
 by the clock in the hall, and doors and 
 windows were as yet all barred. The light 
 came in fitfully through any chinks or holes 
 it could find, and gave a generally mysteri- 
 ous aspect to the hall and staircase. Little 
 Miles glanced rather timidly round, and 
 drew nearer to his brother, as they passed 
 through the library and billiard-room, as if 
 the unwonted appearance of the familiar 
 apartments threw something of the super, 
 natural round about them. 
 
 Any one who has risen at an unusual hour, 
 wid come into the sitting-rooms before the 
 
84 
 
 MIS UN D BBSTOOV. 
 
 household is stirring, will understand some, 
 thing of the child’s feeling. The chairs 
 and tables are undergoing a phase which to 
 them is familiar, but which is quite strange 
 to us. 
 
 We only know them as in connection 
 with ourselves, and do not dream that they 
 have an existence in which we are not, with 
 which we have nothing to do. We know 
 them in the busy day and in the lighted 
 room at night; but with the grey dawn 
 creeping in upon them they are quite 
 strangers, and even mysterious. 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen recognized and 
 expressed this feeling when he laid the 
 scene of one of his fairy tales in a drawing- 
 room at dead of night, and endowed the 
 inanimate objects in the room with the at- 
 tributes of human beings. 
 
 The two little brothers found their way 
 out by the conservatory, and went to the 
 tool-house to fetch some baskets, befoi'e set- 
 ting out for the mushroom fields. 
 
 The dew was heavy on flowers and grass 
 
MISUNDEMSTCOJ). gj 
 
 and when they got into the meadow, their 
 feet and legs got very wet. 
 
 At sight of the first batch of mushroom? 
 in the distance, Humphrey got wild, and 
 with a scream of joy he bounded towards 
 it. From one batch to another he sped, 
 picking as fast as he could, and was soon 
 out of sight. 
 
 Humphrey had it all to himself, for Miles 
 could not keep up, and he was soon left far 
 behind with his basket. He was a little dis- 
 concerted at first, when he saw Humphrey 
 gradually getting further and further away ; 
 but having satisfied himself by a hasty 
 glance round the field, that there were no 
 bulls near, he became reconciled to his soli 
 tude, and began to fill his basket, humming 
 a little tune to himself as he did so. 
 
 He was rather surprised, as he went 
 along, to see how many mushrooms Hum- 
 phrey had left untouched. They were such 
 lovely ones too ! all red and yellow outside, 
 and white inside, and so huge ! 
 
 He filled his basket with them in grea‘ 
 8 
 
86 
 
 MISUNDEBSIOOD. 
 
 triumph, and then sat down under z tree to 
 wait for Humphrey’s return. 
 
 The early morning air was rather fresh, 
 and he began to feel a little cold without 
 his flannel shirt. His feet, too, were very 
 wet, and he got up to take a little run to 
 warm himself. He caught sight of Hum- 
 phrey coming towards him, and ran to 
 meet him. 
 
 “ Oh, Humphie ! I’ve got such a lot, and 
 such beauties! Come and see them under 
 the tree.” 
 
 “ Look here !” said Humphrey, holding 
 up his basket; “did you ever see such a 
 quantity?” 
 
 Miles looked a little nervously at the 
 white exteriors of Humphrey’s mushrooms. 
 
 “ Mine are quite different, Humphie.” 
 
 “ Y ou haven’t been picking fungus, I 
 hope?” exclaimed Humphrey, stopping 
 short. 
 
 “ Oh, no !” said Miles, quickly — “ at least 
 I don’t think I have,” he added doubtfully. 
 
 ‘ But what is fungus, Humphie ?” 
 
MIS UND EBSTOOD. 
 
 8 ? 
 
 Toadstools,” answered Humphrey, hor- 
 rid big yellow toads ; there are lots of them 
 about in the fields. Where are they, Miles 
 Show them to me, (^uick !’ 
 
 “ They’re under the trees,” said Miles ■ 
 and both boys set off running. 
 
 “Toads, every one!” proclaimed Hum- 
 phrey, emptying the basket on the ground. 
 “ Not one mushroom in the lot. Why, 
 Miles ! do you know they’re poison ?” 
 
 Miles stood aghast — the awe of the an- 
 nouncement completely softening the disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 “ It’s lucky I saw them before they were 
 cooked,” continued Humphrey, in a tone of 
 great solemnity ; “ fancy, if all the wild men 
 had been poisoned! It would have been 
 your fault.” 
 
 “Oh, Humphie !” said little Miles, in 
 terror, “ let’s throw them away.” 
 
 “We’ll smash them,” said Humphrey; 
 “ and that’ll do as well.” 
 
 So they made a heap of the fungus, and 
 stamped upon them till their shoes and 
 
88 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 stockings v>'ere covered with the nasty coir 
 pound. 
 
 ‘ What will Virginie say ? ” laughed Hun 
 phrey, as he looked at his legs. 
 
 “What will she say?” echoed Miles, de 
 lighted. Suddenly he stopped short. “ Hum 
 phie ! I never said my prayers ! ” 
 
 “ Good gracious ! No more have I.” 
 
 “ What shall we do? We shall have to go 
 home. It wouldn’t be right, I suppose, to 
 say them out of doors? ” 
 
 “ No harm at all,” said Humphrey ; “ let’s 
 say them under the tree.” 
 
 And, suiting the action to the word, with 
 his usual promptitude, Humphrey knelt 
 down ; but he was up again directly. 
 
 “ I was going to tell you. Miles, that we’d 
 oetter take off our hats while we say them ; 
 every one does when they go to church ; 
 which, of course, you don’t know, as you’re 
 t )o young to go there.” 
 
 Miles received the information with great 
 respect, and began to disentangle his elastic 
 from his hair. 
 
MISUKDWBSTOOD. gg 
 
 " Not yet ! ” exclaimed Humphrey ; “ wait 
 tili 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 
 8 ’^ 
 
90 
 
 MISVNDMBSTOOD. 
 
 vei V long since I used to say it 1 u 
 
 tell you what, Miles, you might say joul 
 grace ! 
 
 “My grace?” said Miles, lather scared; 
 “ why, that isn’t prayers, is it, Humphie ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, it is,” answered Humphrey ; 
 ‘ in your little book of ‘ Prayers for Child- 
 ren,’ 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 Hum- 
 phrey, 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.’ ’ 
 
MISUNDE RSTOOD, 
 
 91 
 
 Thai will do/' said Humphrey. 
 
 But, Humphie! Fve not had my break- 
 fast! How can I say it?" 
 
 To be sure," said Humphrey, reflective- 
 ly, ‘‘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 atti- 
 tude of deep thought. 
 
 “ I know I ’’ 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 sal 
 down cn the grass, and counted their mush- 
 rooms, to see how^ many there would be for 
 the wild men apiece. 
 
92 
 
 MlSJJNDMBliTOK.D 
 
 Meanwhile Virginie, awakened by the 
 rush of cold air caused by the oper. door, 
 sat up iiL 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 per- 
 ceive 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 direc 
 tions. 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-nurscry, 
 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 
 couid. 
 
MISUADEEiaiTOOD. 
 
 93 
 
 The housemaid who answered the belj 
 could give no account of the young gentle- 
 men, 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 house- 
 maid, “ 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. 
 
MISITNDSHSTOOD. 
 
 94 
 
 See there, Jeanne ! he has not the flanne 
 shirt he carries always. His chest will in* 
 flame. He will die !” 
 
 She began to put on her bonnet. 
 
 “ There they are !” exclaimed Jane, who 
 nad 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, ^ I’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 
 Virgiirie’s infuriated appearance. 
 
 “ Regardez !” he shouted in triumph, hold 
 mg up his basket of mushrooms. 
 
MIS VNDEBSTOOV. 
 
 95 
 
 At the sight of Miles’s wet boots and 
 flushed cheeks, Virginie forgot all the re- 
 proaches she had prepared for Humphrey 
 and merely with lofty disdain confiscating 
 his mushrooms, she took Miles up in hei 
 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 ou 
 Humphrey, who was being washed in the 
 distance by the nursery - maid ; “ he didn’t 
 want to come — ^it v'as all me.” 
 
96 
 
 MISV NDMBSTOOD. 
 
 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 
 Virgmie informed him it was his fault that 
 
SlIStJNDMMSTOOD. 
 
 97 
 
 lies 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 mat- 
 ter with your brother ?” 
 
 “ Oh, it was the mushrooms,” said Hum- 
 phrey, 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 at- 
 tack 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 ?” 
 
 9 
 
95 
 
 MIS UMDSRSl 0 OD 
 
 ‘ 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 doc- 
 tor, “ 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 imme- 
 diately plunged. 
 
 “ Take care, my dear child,” said the doc- 
 tor, pulling him away ; “ you mustn’t fright- 
 en 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 Hum- 
 
 phrey ; but at the sound of hoofs ( n the 
 gravel outside, he broke off suddenly ; ' Oh 
 
MISUNDJEBSTO 0J>. 
 
 99 
 
 there’s black Bob plunging again; I Musi 
 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. 
 
 (TTLE Miles was terribly disappointed 
 
 J— ^ 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 Hum- 
 phrey was on the fidget all day. He paid 
 constant visits to the dining-room and li- 
 bra? j, and even intruded into the kitchen ; 
 but he could see nothing in any of the 
 prej arations 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 ; znd they amused themselves foi the 
 
 (lOO) 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 lOI 
 
 next few hours by imagining the astonish 
 ment 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 ap- 
 pearance 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 con- 
 versation 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 gen- 
 tleman in a broad expanse of satin waist- 
 coat, and a general buzz of conversation 
 was going on all over the room, when the 
 library door was flung open with a bounce, 
 and Humphrejr appeared in the doorway* 
 
 9 ^ 
 
102 
 
 MISUNI>MjRSTOOD 
 
 Fresh from Virginie’s impro\ ing 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 gentle- 
 men congregated in the room. 
 
 Many of them turned round to look at 
 the pretty boy, and more than one held out 
 <t hand of greeting. 
 
 But, to Sir Everard’s annoyance, Hum- 
 phrey, 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 in- 
 tense 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 Ever- 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 103 
 
 m'd's mind, as the boy asked the questioa 
 The recollection of the children’s conversa 
 t.on 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 Par 
 liament, the two long words, heard for the 
 first time that Saturday, had confused them 
 selves in the boy’s mind, and he answered 
 “ I suppose t was — but / thought it began 
 with an ‘ a.’ ’ 
 
104 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 ‘And you thought ‘constituents’ meant 
 ^wild men?’” pursued his father, eagerly 
 foLowing 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 extraordi- 
 nary, 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 ques- 
 tioner, 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 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 lOj 
 
 tlioughts 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 en- 
 try, 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 like- 
 wise. 
 
 “ 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. Pa- 
 tiently and methodically Humphrey went 
 
I 06 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 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 tete-a-t^te 
 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 hand- 
 shaking fraught with danger, each conversa- 
 tion 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 triumpha. progress down 
 the room, and listening to the patronizing 
 
MIS UNDBBSTOOD. 
 
 107 
 
 tones in which one and the othe’* 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 an- 
 swer. 
 
 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 bar- 
 onet.) 
 
 “ 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 
 
j 08 MISUNDERSTOOI), 
 
 last “good night” was said, ard with an in 
 describable sense of relief Sir Everard saw 
 the little figure disappear. But he did not 
 recover himself all the evening. It was re- 
 marked 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 distin- 
 guished among the sobs that, “ he was afraid 
 Uncle Charlie would go to hell, for telling 
 such a dreadful story, and he couldn't bea^ 
 to think of it!” 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IRGINIE waylaid Sir Everard on his 
 
 V 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 chil- 
 dren, 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 win 
 dow wh en 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 boj 
 drew himself in and bounded towards him 
 
 lo 
 
 (109) 
 
no 
 
 MISVNDSBSTOOJ}. 
 
 “ Why did you not come and help me to 
 dress this morning?” said Sir Everard, as 
 be kissed him. 
 
 Humphrey looked rather bored. “Vir 
 ginie 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 de- 
 served 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, “ per 
 haps 1 shall remember presently.” 
 
 He ran over his recent misdemeanors in 
 his fiead, checking them off with bis fingers 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 Ill 
 
 and his father, seeing it was likely to be a 
 'ong 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 pro- 
 voked. 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’ 
 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 
 
II2 
 
 MISUNDBRSTOOD. 
 
 jumping up from his chair, and clapping his 
 hands ; “ turn it off! quick ! look ! look 1 
 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 any- 
 thing 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 al- 
 ways take turns to do it. Oh ! I wish it 
 would happen again!” And at the recol- 
 lection, 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 Miies 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 espi* 
 
MISUNDEBSTOOL 
 
 113 
 
 onagc 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 vehe- 
 ment in his promises that it should never 
 happen again. 
 
 “ Till next time, I suppose,” said the baro- 
 net, laughing ; and then he gave him somr 
 bread and honey and took up the news 
 paper. 
 
 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 au- 
 thority of a parent after all.” 
 
 In about five minutes, Humphrey’s medi- 
 tations came to a close. 
 
 “Father!” 
 
 “ What, my boy,” said Sir Everard, put- 
 ting down the paper, in anticipation of some 
 penitent speech, and mentally saying, “ I 
 did not mean him to take it so much to 
 neart, poor child I” 
 
 10 * 
 
114 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 “ If you had lived in the times of th« 
 Wars of the Roses, which side would you 
 nave 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, how- 
 ever, 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 pnrlian^ent kno\» 
 
MISUNDHRSTOOD. 
 
 II5 
 
 the names at the tips of their fingers and 
 could say them in order; and which were 
 won by Yorkists and which by Lancas* 
 trians.” 
 
 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; “sup- 
 pose you get your hat and run out in the 
 garden.” 
 
 Yorkists and Lancastrians at once vanish- 
 ed 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 
 'ound himself condemned to a solitary after- 
 
Il6 MISVNDMSSTOOD. 
 
 noon, but seemed somewhat cheered by a 
 long-whispered confabulation that his broth 
 er had with him before starting. 
 
 At three o’clock Sir Everard and Hum« 
 phrey 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 ?” 
 
 “Yes, I think I may promise to keep 
 it.” 
 
 “ Well, then, I’ll tell you. It’s a birthday 
 present for you. And what would you 
 like? But you must promise not to tsU 
 any one.” 
 
 “ No one shall know : but I think I would 
 rather you chose for me ; what you like, I 
 shall like.” 
 
 “Well, now, I don't think you would 
 
J^IS UNDEUSTOOD. 
 
 II7 
 
 i ni see, / shou.d like a pop-gun, or SvJiiie 
 nine-pins. Now you would not care foi 
 either of those, would you?” 
 
 Sir Everard admitted that he was getting 
 a little old for these amusements. 
 
 “ I thought so ! ” pursued Humphrey, de- 
 lighted with his own discrimination, “ and 
 that’s what makes it so difficult. You’ve 
 got a watch and a thermometer, and all the 
 other things grown-up men have, so it is 
 very puzzling.” 
 
 “ But, my dear child, all the things you 
 mention are very expensive, far beyond your 
 little means, I should think. Why, how 
 much money have you got ?” 
 
 “Well! that’s just the awkward part; I 
 have not got any ! But I thought perhaps 
 you wouldn’t mind giving me some, as it is 
 for your own birthday present.” 
 
 Sir Everard laughed. 
 
 “ Rather an expensive way of having 
 birthday presents.” 
 
 “ I don’t think it will be very expensive,’ 
 said the practical Humphrey ; “ but of 
 
MISUNDERSTOOU. 
 
 Ii8 
 
 course it depends on what I buy. Here is 
 the shop, father ; please stop.” 
 
 They pulled up before one of those little 
 nondescript shops to be found in every small 
 country-town. 
 
 “ Now mind,” said Humphrey, as he 
 jumped down from his pony, “ mind you 
 don’t peep through the door, because you 
 might see me looking at things on the 
 counter.” 
 
 He waited for a moment till he had exact- 
 ed a promise from Sir Everard, and then 
 ran into the shop. 
 
 “ I want something for a grown-up man,” 
 he said, as he advanced to the counter. 
 
 The shop-woman did her best to show 
 everything she thought likely to suit, but 
 Humphrey was not at all satisfied with the 
 choice. His restless eyes wandered all 
 over the shop. “ Have not you got any- 
 thing for a man to put in his pocket?” he 
 asked. 
 
 An inspiration seized the woman, and she 
 advanced to the window. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 1 19 
 
 “Take care!” called out Humphrey, to 
 the woman’s great surprise, as she began to 
 take down some things. 
 
 “ Please don’t,” he continued, in an agony, 
 as, startled by his shout, she remained, with 
 a compass in one hand and a purse in the 
 other. 
 
 “ Father’s out there, and he’ll see what 
 you take down, and guess it’s for his birth- 
 day present.” 
 
 The woman humbly begged his pardon, 
 but it was too late ; Humphrey would not 
 look at either purse or compass. “You’ve 
 spoilt it all,” he said ; “ he must have seen.” 
 
 He remained leaning disconsolately against 
 the counter, gazing with no friendly eye on 
 the rapidly increasing heap of goods which 
 the patient woman produced from all cor- 
 ners of the shop for his inspection. 
 
 “ Have you got a husband he asked, 
 suddenly. 
 
 To Humphrey’s horror, the woman put 
 up her apron to her eyes, and began to 
 
 cry. 
 
120 
 
 MISUNDBBSTCOD. 
 
 “ Oh ! I’m so sorry,” said he ; “I didn’t 
 mean to make you cry, really. I see now 
 you’ve got a cap on, so of course he’s dead. 
 I’m very sorr}’^ he’s dead,” he continued 
 after a pause, “ because I was going to say 
 perhaps he would have been able to tell me 
 what a grown-up man would like.” Then, 
 afraid he had been unfeeling, he added, 
 “ Of course. I’m sorry too, because it seems 
 to make you unhappy. You don’t remem- 
 ber, I suppose,” he went on, doubtfully, and 
 eyeing the widow carefully, to see how 
 far he might go without fear of a fresh out- 
 burst, “ what he used to like for his birthday 
 presents ?” 
 
 The woman cast her thoughts back to the 
 memory of the defunct, and the prominent 
 idea connected with him being tobacco- 
 smoke, she suggested a cigar-case. 
 
 Humphrey was delighted at the idea. 
 
 “You don’t mean to say they’re in the 
 window !” he exclaimed in despair. 
 
 The widow was obliged to admit that it 
 was too true. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 121 
 
 “ What are we to do !” said Humphrey, 
 dejectedly. “ I know !” he added, the next 
 moment running to the door. 
 
 “Father!” he shouted, “would 3’^ou mind 
 turning your head away for a minute, be- 
 cause we’re going to get something out ot 
 the window.” 
 
 Sir Everard immediately became engross- 
 ed with the door of the opposite public- 
 house, to the great discomfiture of one of his 
 gardeners, who was issuing therefrom, 
 slightly inebriated, and had been doing his 
 best to escape the baronet’s notice. 
 
 Humphrey was delighted with the cigar- 
 cases. They were so brilliant in their em- 
 broidered covers. He was particularly at- 
 tracted by the smallest and smartest. 
 
 “ It will hold so very few cigars,” sug- 
 gested the woman, “ had you not better have 
 a larger one ?” 
 
 “ Oh, that doesn’t matter the least,” said 
 Humphrey, “ because father doesn’t smoke. 
 AS long as it is smart and pretty to put into 
 his pocket, it will do veiy well. Wrap it 
 
 II 
 
122 
 
 MIS ONMERSTOOD. 
 
 up, please, so as to hide it quite, ji case he 
 should guess by the shape.” 
 
 The widow wrapped it in several covers, 
 and Humphrey left the shop. 
 
 “ You did not see, father, I hope,” he said 
 earnestly, as he mounted his pony, and Sir 
 Everard assured him he had not once looked 
 towards the window. 
 
 “ How much ?” asked the baronet, as the 
 parcel was handed up. 
 
 “ Ten-and-sixpence,” answered the shop- 
 woman. 
 
 Sir Everard hid his feelings, and paid the 
 money. 
 
 “ Isn’t it cheap?” said Humphrey, as they 
 rode off, “ considering it’s all embroidered 
 
 with gold, and oh ! dear me ! I hope 
 
 you haven’t guessed by that ?” 
 
 “ Far from it,” answered Sir Everard ; “ I 
 am more puzzled than ever; for I can’t 
 conceive what you could have found in 
 that little shop, that would be all embroider- 
 ed with gold.” 
 
 Humphrey was in gr eat glee, “ You 
 
MlSUNDEliSTOOD 
 
 123 
 
 ha*ren’'. the slightest idea, I suppose, father 
 what it is ?” 
 
 “ Not the remotest.” 
 
 “ So I know something you don’t. You 
 often tell me you know so many things I 
 Know nothing about. Now it is just the 
 other way, isn’t it ?” 
 
 “Just the other way,” answered the baro- 
 net, and Humphrey rode on in a state of 
 great elation. 
 
 “ It’s a dreadful thing to have a secret,” 
 he observed presently, after having once or 
 twice begun to speak, and stopped short. 
 
 “ Why?” inquired his father, smiling. 
 
 “ Oh ! so dreadfully difficult to keep,” he 
 answered. “Two or three times I’ve been 
 beginning to talk about it, and forgetting 
 you weren’t to know.” 
 
 “ Let’s talk of something else then.” 
 
 Another pause, and then Humphrey said : 
 ‘ Do you know, father, I think you had bet- 
 ter take me home?” 
 
 “ Home already ! are you tired ?” 
 
 “No — it isn’t that- but I know if I waif 
 
124 
 
 MlHUmnMRk TOOD. 
 
 much Icinger, I shall be telling you the secret 
 before I can stop myself. If I only could 
 tell some one, I should be all right ; so that’s 
 why I want to get home to Miles.” 
 
 “ But I want to call on General Colville 
 and also to pay old Dyson a visit. Can you 
 last a little longer, do you think?” 
 
 Humphrey was fond of society, and so 
 took very kindly to the arrangement. 
 
 “ Dyson is the old deaf man, isn’t he ? 
 Was he born deaf?” 
 
 “ No ; it is only of late years that he has 
 become so.” 
 
 “ I’m glad I wasn’t born deaf. It would 
 have been a great bore. I wonder Dyson 
 doesn’t buy an ear-trumpet.” 
 
 “ I suppose, poor fellow, he can’t afford it.” 
 
 “ I should so like to give him one.” 
 
 “ But where’s your money ?” 
 
 “ Ah ! there it is again. I never do have 
 any money.” 
 
 “ I gave you a shilling a very little while 
 ago.” 
 
 “ I bought copper caps, and hard-bake.” 
 
MIS UND EB STOOD. 
 
 £25 
 
 “ Ah ! we can’t eat our cake, and havv, it, 
 you know. 
 
 “ Not cake, father — hardbake !’* 
 
 “ It’s all the same. Now, if you wert to 
 save up your money, instead of buying trash, 
 you would be able to buy useful things.” 
 
 “ So I will. I’ll begin saving directly ; the 
 very next shilling you give me. I’ll put away, 
 and go on till I’ve got enough to buy D) son 
 an ear-trumpet.” 
 
 “ That will be a very good plan.” 
 
 “ When do you suppose you’ll be giving 
 me another shilling, father ?” 
 
 “ Ah ! that I don’t know at all.” 
 
 “ Hadn’t you better be beginning pretty 
 soon? because an ear-trumpet will cost a 
 good deal, and it would be a pity to keep 
 old Dyson waiting.” 
 
 Sir Everard handed him a shilling, say- 
 ing, as he did so : “ Now, mind, it is not to 
 be spent on anything else and Humphrey 
 faithfully promised it should not. 
 
 Old Dyson was in his garden when the) 
 passed, so they drew up to speak to him 
 
126 MISUNDEMSTOOD. 
 
 He was not so deaf as to be unable to hear 
 Sir Everard’s powerful shout, but Hum 
 phrey’s little attempts were futile. 
 
 “ How pleased he’d be,” thought Hum- 
 phrey to himself, “ if he knew I was going 
 to save up my mone}’ to buy him an ear- 
 trumpet.” 
 
 And he held up his shilling to the old 
 man in triumph, as if the very sight of it 
 would tell him the whole story. 
 
 Dyson smiled and nodded. “Ay, ay, go- 
 ing to buy sweeties, I see !” 
 
 Humphrey shook his head vehemently, 
 and tried to shout an explanation. 
 
 “ No !” said the old man ; “ then it’ll be a 
 top, maybe?” 
 
 It was no use trying to make him under- 
 stand ; and as Sir Everard was moving otF, 
 Humphrey was obliged to follow, shaking 
 his head to the last. 
 
 “ It would never do to tell old Dyson a 
 secret,” he observed to his father, when he 
 overtook aim. 
 
 “ Why not?” 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 127 
 
 “ Why, you’d have to scream it so loud 
 ill his ear that everj one would hear. It 
 wouldn’t be much of a secret when all the 
 village was listening. Supposing I were to 
 shout to him, ‘ Dyson, I’m going to give 
 fat her a birthday present, and it’s a cigar 
 ca — — Oh, good gracious !” said Hum- 
 phrey, pulling up his pony, “ I’ve told you 
 my secret ! Oh, father, did you guess ?” 
 
 Sir Everard’s attention had been wander- 
 ing, and he could honestly assure the child 
 that he was as far as ever from knowing the 
 secret. 
 
 “And now, here we are at General Col- 
 ville’s,” he added ; “ so you will have lots of 
 things to distract your thoughts.” 
 
 Sir Everard and Humphrey were shown 
 into the drawing-room where were two 
 ladies and some children. 
 
 Mrs. Colville came forward to receive 
 them, and informed Sir Everard that her 
 husband was confined to his room with a 
 elight attack of gout. 
 
 Sir Everard immediately volunteered to 
 
128 
 
 MIStlNDtlRSTOOl). 
 
 go and see him. Mrs. Colville took him up* 
 stairs, and Humphrey was left with the 
 other lady. 
 
 “ What is you name, dear ?” she asked. 
 
 I’m Humphrey Duncombe,” he answer- 
 ed, seating himself by her side. “ Who are 
 you ?” 
 
 " I’m Mrs. Colville’s sister,” she answered, 
 smiling. “ I suppose you don’t remember 
 me, but I have seen you before, at your 
 grandmother’s, at Banleigh. I live close by.” 
 
 “ I wonder if you could keep a secret ?” 
 said Humphrey eagerly. 
 
 “ Yes, dear, I think so ; but why ? Have 
 you got one to tell me ?” 
 
 “ A very great one. I’ve never had one 
 before, and I don’t like it at all. I mus^ 
 tell some one, or else I shall be telling it to 
 father, you know.” 
 
 “ But why not tell your father ? Surely 
 he would be the best person.” 
 
 “ Tell father ! Mrs. Colville’s sister ? 
 Why, he’s just the very person who isn’t 
 to know.” 
 
MISVNVEBSTO OB. 
 
 1^9 
 
 “ Mrs. Colville’s sister” had been half 
 afraid she was going to be made the confi- 
 dante of some boyish escapade which the 
 child had concealed from his father; but 
 flumphrey’s open face disarmed suspicion, 
 and she listened attentively while he poured 
 forth his tale. 
 
 It was necessary to listen attentively, for, 
 in the first place, Humphrey was in such 
 a hurry to get to his point, that he rather 
 slurred over the necessary explanations ; 
 and, in the second place, he insisted on 
 whispering it all in her ear, on account of 
 the presence of the children. 
 
 He had just finished his story, and she 
 was making solemn protestations of the 
 strictest secrecy, when Mrs. Colville came 
 oack. 
 
 “ You must not tell even her you know,” 
 concluded Humphrey ; and, with a sigh of 
 relief, he sat down again. 
 
 Mrs. Colville was one of those mothers 
 who are always fancying other children are 
 better dressed than their own. She was a 
 
130 
 
 MiaOUBJSRSfOOV. 
 
 great copyist, and an unscrupulous borrowef 
 of patterns. 
 
 Virginie held her in abhorrence. She had 
 once asked for the pattern of Miles’s blouse, 
 and Virginie had never forgotten or forgiven 
 Sir Everard’s ready acquiescence. 
 
 Mrs. Colville and her family came to the 
 same church as the Duncombes, and it was 
 almost more than Virginie could stand to 
 see other children dressed like her young 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Mrs. Colville — blinded, a little, like most 
 mothers — did hot see that what suited Hum- 
 phrey and Miles, both exceedingly pretty 
 children, did not have quite the same effect 
 on her nice, but decidedly plain, little boys, 
 and went steadily on. Whatever appeared 
 on Humphrey’s graceful figure one Sunday, 
 was sure to be reproduced on some fat little 
 Colville the next. 
 
 Men do not notice these things. Sir 
 Everard was quite unaware of what went 
 on, but, to Virginie, it was a constant sour ce 
 of annoyance. 
 
MIS undmusiood. 
 
 13 * 
 
 ‘ That's a pretty suit,” said Mrs. Colville 
 sxamining Humphrey’s clothes. 
 
 “Very,” returned her sister; “ they fit so 
 well.” 
 
 “ Come here, Clement,” said Mrs. Colvihe 
 to a little boy in the distance ; “ there, don’t 
 you see, Mary, how differently his things 
 set?” 
 
 Mary saw wel! enough, and saw too that 
 it was figure and not clothes that made such 
 a difference between the two boys, but she 
 did not like to wound her sister’s maternal 
 vanity by saying so. 
 
 “Does your French bonne make your 
 clothes, dear?” Mrs. Colville inquired of 
 Humphrey. 
 
 “ Not mine,” he answered — only Miles’s. 
 Mine,” he added with great pride, “come 
 from a London tailor’s.” 
 
 “ Do you happen to remember his 
 name ?” 
 
 “ Swears and Wells,” answered Hum- 
 phrey ; “ I went there once to see ‘ Gulli- 
 ver.’ I advise you to go and see him when 
 
1^2 MISUNLMMSTOOD. 
 
 you are in JLondon. You can’t think how 
 jolly he is !” 
 
 “ I suppose, of course, you don’t remem- 
 ber the direction?” Of course Humphrey 
 didn’t. 
 
 “ Stop a bit,” he said, all of a suddea 
 “ I’ve seen the direction written somewhere 
 quite lately. Where could I have seen it ? 
 Why, since I’ve been in this room I’ve read 
 it.” 
 
 “ Impossible, my dear child,” said Mrs. 
 Colville, laughing. 
 
 “ But I have really^' getting up from his 
 chair in his excitement ; “ I’ve seen the num- 
 ber and the name of the street written some- 
 where in this drawing-room.” 
 
 “You must be dreaming, dear.” 
 
 “ No, I’m quite sure I did. Now where 
 could it have been? Did I go near the 
 writing-table ?” As he spoke, he advanced. 
 ‘ Or, stop, here are some cards. Did I see 
 it written on a card ?” 
 
 “ No ; I assure you Swears and We Is are 
 not visitors of mine.” 
 
M18 UNJ) EltSlO OB. 
 
 133 
 
 Humphrey was determined not to give it 
 up, and in spite of the laughter of both la- 
 dies, he got up, went to the door, and made 
 his entry all over again, that he might see 
 what he could have passed on the way that 
 might have had the direction on it. 
 
 He reflected out loud as he went along : 
 “ I came in here and passed the table (no, 
 not on the books, or the work-basket, or the 
 flower-stand). Then I stood by the piano a 
 minute, while father was shaking hands with 
 Mrs. Colville (no, not on the piano or the 
 music). Then I shook hands with Mrs. Col- 
 ville, then I sat down on the sofa by her 
 sister, and put my hat by my side so — and 
 
 Oh !” he exclaimed, so suddenly that he 
 
 startled both ladies, “ here it is, written in- 
 side my hat ! That's where I saw it — look ! 
 a little ticket: ‘Swears and Wells, 192 Re- 
 gent Street.’ AirCt you glad, Mrs. Colville? 
 Now you’ll be able to find the shop. Hadn’t 
 you oetter write it down ?” 
 
 He was heart and soul in the subject, and 
 did not perceive the amusement he gave 
 
 12 
 
134 
 
 MIS VNDEItSTOOD. 
 
 What would Virginie’s feelings have been 
 could she have seen the name, number and 
 address, copied with great accuracy into 
 Mrs. Colville’s “Where is it?” and to make 
 sure there should be no mistake, this mem- 
 orandum added : “ a suit such as was lately 
 made for Sir E. Buncombe’s little boy” ? 
 
 This was just accomplished when Sir 
 Everard came back. 
 
 “ I’m afraid the General is in for a sharp 
 attack, Mrs. Colville.” 
 
 “ I am afraid he is — he is so very impru- 
 dent. You know my sister. Sir Everard ?” 
 
 Sir Everard advanced with a smile of rec- 
 ognition. 
 
 “ Is it possible you are little Mary Wil- 
 berforce? I didn’t recognize you just now, 
 you are grown out of all recollection. To 
 be sure, it is a long time since I saw you — 
 three or four years, isn’t it ?” 
 
 Mary said something about it being a long 
 time, but she did not like to particularize 
 the date, though she remembered it per- 
 fectly: because Lady Buncombe had been 
 
MISUNDMBSTOOD. 13J 
 
 with him at the time, and she was afiaid of 
 recalling painful associations. 
 
 “ And when did you leave Banleigh ?” 
 
 “ About a week ago.” 
 
 “ How were my people ?” 
 
 “ I saw Lady Albinia and Miss Buncombe 
 the day before I left. They were both very 
 ^ell.” 
 
 A shy smile lighted up her face as she 
 mentioned Miss Buncombe. There was 
 evidently some joke about her, for it was 
 reflected on Sir Everard’s. “ Poor old Ce- 
 ciba,” laughed he. 
 
 Miss Buncombe was a lady of limited in- 
 tellect, and exceedingly young for her age ; 
 and everybody was at liberty to laugh at 
 her. They talked on about her for some 
 time, while Humphrey listened with all his 
 might, and then Sir Everard took his 
 leave. 
 
 “ I’m better now,” said Humphi’ey, as 
 they rode along. 
 
 “ What ! were you not feeling well ?” said 
 Sir Everard, alarmed. 
 
136 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 “ Oh, jes ; but I mean about my secret 
 What makes me feel better is, that I’ve told 
 it to that lady — Mrs. Colville’s sister.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe you will ever keep that 
 secret for ten days more. Do you know 
 my birthday is not till Monday week?” 
 
 “ Oh dear ! oh dear ! I thought it was 
 much sooner than that. Let’s be quick and 
 talk of something else !” 
 
 “ What shall we talk about ? I am ex- 
 pecting two gentlemen down from London 
 to-night, to spend Sunday; and I’m going 
 to meet them at the station, as soon as I 
 have taken you home to your tea. Will 
 that do ?” 
 
 “ Yes, that will do. Are they nice gentle- 
 men ?” 
 
 “Yes, I think them so: but then tastes 
 differ. Perhaps you won’t.” 
 
 “ Old or young ?” 
 
 “ Well! one is a good deal older than me 
 and ” 
 
 “ White hair, then of course ? ” put in 
 Humphrey 
 
MISUNDSBSTOOD 
 
 137 
 
 “ Greyish, perhaps ; and the other is about 
 the age of your uncle Charlie.” 
 
 “ Will he tell us such nice stories about 
 Kangaroos and boar-hunting ?” 
 
 “ I should think probably not. The other 
 one is more likely to tell you stories, as he 
 has had little boys of his own.” 
 
 “ Miles and I know of a pond where the 
 branch of a tree hangs over, just like the one 
 in Uncle Charlie’s story ; and we are going 
 to crawl along it some day, and look down 
 at our faces in the water, like the man did.” 
 
 “Now, Humphrey,” said Sir Everard, “ I 
 won’t have it done. The branch is quite 
 rotten, and may break off any minute.” 
 
 Humphrey looked very mournful. “ Arc 
 you quite sure, father ?” 
 
 “ Quite sure ; and I forbid you to do it. 
 Do you hear ?” 
 
 “Very well, father,” with a sigh; “we 
 ivon’t crawl along, if you don’t like it ; but 
 fou won’t mind our going to look at it? 
 We’ve been prevented so many times, and 
 we do so want to go there! If wi pronUsi 
 12* 
 
MISUSDEBSTOOD. 
 
 138 
 
 not to climb, you won’t say we’re not to go 
 will you ?” 
 
 “ Yes — once for all, I say you are not to 
 go near the pond ; and I trust to you. Hum 
 phrey, to obey me. Promise.” 
 
 “ It’s a great pity, father !” 
 
 “ Never mind. I won’t have Miles led 
 into any more mischief.” 
 
 Humphrey promised rather reluctantly 
 adding to himself : “ It’s not much use 
 making me promise anything, because I’m 
 sure to forget.” 
 
 They rode on in silence for some time after 
 this; and when Humphrey next spoke, it 
 was on quite a different subject. 
 
 “ I didn’t know till to-day, father, that you 
 didn’t like Aunt Cecilia !” 
 
 “What do you mean, Humphrey?” said 
 Sir Everard, horrified. 
 
 “You spoke as if you didn’t much like 
 her, to Mrs. Colville’s sister.” 
 
 “ Why, what did I say ?” said Sir Everard, 
 hastily casting back his thoughts to the com 
 versation 
 
UISUJUDSBSTOOD. 
 
 139 
 
 “ Well, you seemed to laugh at her a 
 good deal.” 
 
 “ My dear child,” said Sir Everard, re- 
 jeved, “ having a little joke about a person 
 does not prove one does not like that per 
 son. I am very fond of your Aunt. It 
 would be odd indeed if I did not like my 
 only sister. Why, when I laugh at you and 
 Miles, do you think I do not like you ?” 
 
 It was a lame sentence, badly put together, 
 and not expressing much. Sir Everard was 
 not at all satisfied with it himself. He had 
 got it up in such a hurry that he was not at 
 all sure whether it was sense or not, and he 
 was anxious to see if it would answer its 
 purpose. Children are sometimes, however, 
 very easily silenced ; and Humphrey re- 
 ceived the explanation with great respect. 
 
 The danger was past, for this time; but 
 Sir Everard^ inwardly resolved never to 
 speak before the children again ; and the 
 anxieties of the evening before recurring at 
 the same moment to his mind, he determ ined 
 not to run any more risks. 
 
140 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD, 
 
 So, on arriving at home, he sent up a pri 
 vate message to Virginie that he should not 
 require either of the young gentlemen down- 
 stairs that evening, though they might come 
 to his dressing-room as usual. 
 
 Then, after transferring the precious par 
 cel from his own to Humphrey’s pocket, he 
 wished the boy ‘‘good-bye,” and went to 
 meet his friends at the station. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 H E next day was Sunday, and a hope- 
 
 JL lessly wet one. Humphrey and Miles 
 made great friends with their father’s guests 
 at breakfast — the former giving them the 
 whole account of the aborigines’ dinner- 
 party and the birthday present. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, Sir Eve- 
 rard and one of his friends went into the 
 library to look for a book they had been 
 talking about, and the two little boys were 
 left with the other gentleman. 
 
 Presently Virginie looked m. “ M. Hum 
 phrey ! M. Miles !” 
 
 Little Miles jumped up, and went to the 
 door, but Humphrey took no notice. 
 
 " Je vous attends, M. Humphrey.” 
 
 (i4>) 
 
142 
 
 MIS UND MUST 0 01). 
 
 “ I’m not coming,” said Humphrey. “ I’m 
 going to stay and amuse this gentleman.” 
 
 “Je reviendrai bientot,” said Virginie 
 and she went away, with Miles. 
 
 “ Is your nurse French?” enquired Colonel 
 Sturt. 
 
 “Yes — she’s French.” 
 
 “ Then why do you speak to her in Eng- 
 lish?” 
 
 “ I never speak French on Sunday,” 
 answered Humphrey ; “ I don’t think it’s 
 right.” 
 
 “ Not right ! Why not ?” 
 
 “ Lessons are wrong on Sunday ; and 
 French is a sort of lessons — so French must 
 be wrong too.” 
 
 “ Humphie,” said little Miles, running in : 
 “ Virginie says you must come, or you’ll be 
 late for chairs.” 
 
 “ What does he mean ?” asked Colone. 
 Sturt. 
 
 “ He means prayers,” answered Hum- 
 phrey ; “ he always calls them ‘ chairs 
 because he only sees the long rows before 
 
MISUNDEMSTOOD. 
 
 143 
 
 we begin, as he’s too young to stay. I sup- 
 pose, as it’s so wet, we are not going to 
 church.” 
 
 “Oh, that’s it — is it? Well I’m inclined 
 o think you ought to go then, Humpty- 
 Dumpty, or whatever it is he calls you.” 
 
 The little boys thought this a capital joke. 
 
 “Why, Humpty-Dumpty was the man 
 who sat on a wall !” 
 
 “ Yes, and had a great fall — which is just 
 what you’ll do in a minute,” said the Colonel 
 to Humphrey, who had climbed up the back 
 of his chair, and was sitting astride on the 
 top. 
 
 “ Humpty - Dumpty was an egg,” said 
 Humphrey. “ / don’t break so easily. 
 Come along. Miles.” And he jumped down 
 and ran off, followed by his brother, both 
 singing : 
 
 “ Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall, 
 Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall.” 
 
 The echoes of their mer’^y voices diec' 
 away as they ran up-stairs, and the cor 
 eluding words were not distinguishable. 
 
X44 
 
 M in UNDERSTO OR. 
 
 Five minutes after, the gong sounded, 
 and the servants filed into the library. 
 
 Humphrey was in his place by his father, 
 Mr Wemyss seated near, and everything 
 ready. But Colonel Sturt had not appear- 
 ed. Humphrey looked up anxiously at 
 every sound. 
 
 Sir Everard concluded he did not mean 
 to come, so he opened his book, and signed 
 to one of the servants to shut the door. 
 Humphrey’s restless eyes followed his friend 
 William’s movements as he rose to obey. 
 The next moment he was convulsed with 
 laughter, and could scarcely restrain himself. 
 
 No one else seemed to see anything 
 amusing, and Sir Everard began to read 
 with his usual gravity; but Humphrey, 
 though he got better as the service pro- 
 ceeded, did not dare glance towards the 
 servants’ end of the room, and had to keep 
 his eyes fixed on his prayer-book, for fear 
 they should be tempted to stray in that di- 
 rection. What was it that had tickled the 
 boy’s fancy? 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 145 
 
 Only that just as William was closing the 
 door, the missing gentleman had slipped 
 quietly in and unconsciously seated himself 
 in the footman’s vacant place at the end of 
 the long line of servants, where he remained 
 during the rest of the service. 
 
 The sight of him there, combined with 
 the expression of William’s face at finding 
 his place occupied, had at first completely 
 upset Humphrey ; but, after a time, the 
 veneration for solemn things, which was so 
 prominent a feature in his character, came 
 to his help and he became engrossed in his 
 responses. 
 
 The afternoon proving as wet as the 
 morning, Sir Everard, for want of some- 
 thing better to do, showed his friends over 
 the house. He had a few good pictures,, 
 and the ceiling of one of the upper rooms; 
 was curiously painted ; otherwise there was, 
 not much to see. 
 
 Wandering about a thinly-inhabited house 
 on a wet day is always rather depressing 
 and it would have been a melancholy busi- 
 
 13 
 
MIS UND ERSTOOD 
 
 146 
 
 ness, but for the children. But Hutnphrej 
 and Miles chased each other along the pass, 
 ages, and made the unoccupied rooms ring 
 with their merry voices. They were very 
 anxious to do the honors of their own apart 
 ments, when, in due course, the nurseries 
 were reached. 
 
 “ This is my bed,” proclaimed Humphrey 
 and “ Here is my bath,” announced Miles. 
 
 “ But what’s this ?” said Colonel Sturt, 
 taking up an embroidered cigar-case that 
 lay upon the table. 
 
 A shriek was the only answer. 
 
 Colonel Sturt nearly dropped the cigaj- 
 case in his consternation ; Sir Everard turn- 
 ed hastily round ; and Humphrey, snatching 
 it up, rushed out of the room. 
 
 “ What is the matter?” asked Sir Everard. 
 
 “It was the birthday present !” s,?iidi\i\X\Q 
 Miles, in an awe-struck whisper. 
 
 Sir Everard followed Humphrey to assure 
 him he had not seen anything ; which made 
 matters rather worse, as he found him in the 
 act of hiding it in Virginie’s band-box, undei 
 
MISUNDEUSTO OD. 
 
 147 
 
 her best Sunday bonnet. With some ditfi 
 culty he reassured the boy, and brought 
 him back. 
 
 “ It was a near thing, though,” observed 
 Humphrey, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 Colonel Sturt was now almost afraid to 
 remark on anything else ; but a shilling con- 
 cealed in a tooth-glass attracted his attention 
 
 “ Oh, that’s my money,” explained Hum 
 phrey, “ that I am saving to buy old Dyson 
 an ear-trumpet with. It was the only safi 
 place I could find to keep it in.” 
 
 “ How much will it cost ?” asked the 
 Colonel. 
 
 “ Seventeen shillings, I believe.” 
 
 “And how much have you got ?” 
 
 “Well, only that yet,” answered the boy, 
 pointing to the solitary shilling ; “ but then 
 you know, I only began yesterday.” 
 
 Colonel Sturt asked a good many ques- 
 tions about old Dyson, and then took half-a- 
 sovereign from his pocket, and dropped it 
 into the tooth-glass “ That’s ray contribu 
 tion, ’ said he. 
 
148 
 
 MISUNBEUSTOOD. 
 
 Humphrey was too much excited by this 
 unexpected munificence to make civil 
 speeches ; but his unfeigned surprise and 
 delight were worth all the thanks in the 
 world. He ran after his father to exhibit 
 his treasure, and returned breathless. 
 
 “ Only think !” he said to Colonel Sturt, 
 “ that other gentlemen has given me six 
 shillings ; so now I can buy the trumpet 
 directly, and I thought it would be weeks 
 and weeks before I got it !” 
 
 The children were now summoned to 
 their tea, and told to wish the gentlemen 
 “ good - night,” as they were not to come 
 down to dinner. 
 
 But Humphrey first extorted a promise 
 from Colonel Sturt, that he would go to the 
 ear-trumpet shop the next day, the very 
 minute he arrived in London, and have it 
 sent off directly. 
 
 Sir Everard had nearly finished dressing 
 that evening, when the door was thrown 
 open, and both boys rushed into the room. 
 
 “ There ! take it father,” said Humphrey 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 149 
 
 holding out the cigar-case — “ that’s for you. 
 That’s your birthday present — the grand 
 secret! It’s no use our trying to keep it 
 any longer, because we cant /” 
 
 “Are you surprised, Fardie ?’’ asked little 
 Miles, clapping his hands, and Humphrey 
 eagerly repeated the question. 
 
 Sir Everard could, with all truth, assure 
 the children that he had never been so sur- 
 prised in his life ; for, as he did not smoke 
 certainly the very last present he would 
 have expected was a cigar-case ! 
 
 But his pleasure and gratitude were so 
 well feigned, that the children went to bed 
 highly delighted with the success of their 
 birthday present 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 “ OOD-BYE, Humpty-Dumpt}' ! The 
 
 VJ trumpet shall be at the station at 
 five o’clock this afternoon without fail.” 
 
 So spoke Colonel Sturt, as Sir Everard 
 drove his two friends from the door the 
 next morning. 
 
 Humphrey waved his hat in answer, and 
 flew off to make arrangements with Virginie 
 for going to the station to meet it. He 
 had his father’s leave for himself and Miles 
 to go there with the coachman, and to be 
 dropped afterwards at old Dyson’s, where 
 Virginie was to meet them, and bring them 
 home. 
 
 Nothing could be more perfect ! At about 
 half-past four, the dog-cart drove up to the 
 door, and off they went, followed by many 
 
 (150) 
 
MISUHTDERSTOOD. 
 
 151 
 
 parting injunctions from Virginia as to get 
 ting in and out carefully, and sitting very 
 still. 
 
 The trumpet was waiting at the station, 
 and was safely delivered into their eager 
 hands. 
 
 On the way to old Dyson’s, Humphrey 
 opened the parcel, and displayed the ear- 
 trumpet to Miles. 
 
 Never had they seen so curious an article ! 
 It was composed of three tubes, each fitting 
 into the next, and it lengthened or shortened 
 at will. 
 
 Humphrey got very impatient to arrive, 
 and tried to persuade the coachman to whip 
 up the horse into a gallop ; but steady old 
 Peter didn’t see it at all. 
 
 Humphrey then amused himself by length- 
 ening out the tubes, and trumpeting loudly 
 through them ; causing the horse to start so 
 violently, that little Miles was almost pitched 
 out. Then, in shutting it up again, he drop- 
 ped it into the road, and they had to wait 
 while he got out and picked it up. 
 
£52 
 
 MIS UN DEB STOOD. 
 
 All this causing a delay, Peter was told 
 on arriving at the cottage, that Virginie had 
 already been there, but that, finding she was 
 too soon, she had vralked on to the village, 
 and was to call again in a few minutes. 
 
 This information he gathered from a 
 woman who was standing at the gate, anc 
 who assisted the children to alight. 
 
 Then, having deposited them safely, Peter 
 drove off ; and Humphrey, brandishing his 
 trumpet, rushed down the little garden, and 
 beat a thundering tattoo on old Dj^son’s door. 
 But, loud as it was, it did not make any 
 impression on the deaf old man, who was 
 sitting in his arm-chair, indulging in an 
 afternoon nap. 
 
 One minute Humphrey waited, and then 
 his patience gave way. He raised the 
 latch, and the two children entered the 
 cottage. 
 
 “ He’s asleep,” whispered Miles. 
 
 “ You must go and give him a little shake,’ 
 said Humphrey. 
 
 Miles advanced timidly. He didn’t much 
 
MIS XTNDEESTO OM. 
 
 iS3 
 
 like the job, but disobedience to Humphrey 
 was a thing he never dreamt of. 
 
 Humphrey hid the trumpet behind hina, 
 and waited eagerly. 
 
 Miles’s gentle shake produced no effect at 
 all ; Dyson only smiled pleasantly in his 
 sleep. 
 
 “ Shake his hand,” said Humphrey. 
 
 Miles looked doubtfully at the horny hand 
 lying on the arm of the chair, and flushed a 
 little as he put his tiny fingers upon it. But 
 the old man did not move. 
 
 “Harder!” cried Huniphrey. 
 
 Miles exerted himself to the utmost, and 
 succeeded better, for the old man turned 
 over to one side of his chair, and lifted his 
 head a little. 
 
 Miles retreated a few steps. But it was a 
 false alarm, for old Dyson’s head fell for- 
 ward again. 
 
 “ You must jump on his knee. Miles.” 
 
 The pretty little face lengthened con- 
 siderably. 
 
 “ Oh, Humphie ! must I ’■eally ?” 
 
*54 
 
 MISUNDUBSTOOD. 
 
 “ Why not?” 
 
 “ Don’t much like it, Humphie.” 
 
 “What! afraid of poor old Dyson ! Nevei 
 mind, I’ll do it.” 
 
 And, putting the trumpet on the floor, 
 Humphrey sprang upon the old man, and 
 shook him so vigorously that he woke in a 
 fright; but when he saw his little visitors) 
 he sat down again with a smile, saying, 
 “Aye, aye, Mamselle said I was to expect 
 you ; and how are ye to-day, my pretty 
 dears ?” 
 
 “ Quite well, thank you,” said Miles, 
 drawing nearer. 
 
 Dyson put his hand behind his ear : “ I 
 don’t hear what you say,” he said, rather 
 sadly ; “ I’m an old man, and I’m getting 
 deafer every day.” 
 
 Humphrey chuckled with delight, and 
 Miles looked up smiling. 
 
 “ He’ll hear soon, won’t he, Humphie?” 
 
 “ Dyson 1” shouted Humphrey, backing a 
 few steps and beckoning, “ come here.” 
 
 The unsuspecting old man rose and ad- 
 
MISUNDERS2 OOD. 
 
 155 
 
 vanced. The boy was watching his oppor 
 tunity, and directly he was near enough 
 Humphrey snatched up the trumpet, and 
 putting it up, shouted such a How are 
 you?’' into the old man’s ear, that the shock 
 caused Dyson to bound into the air, and 
 then fall backwards with such force, that if 
 he had not providentially fallen into his chair, 
 he might never have survived to tell the tale. 
 And there he remained, sputtering and pant- 
 ing, shaking his head about, as if he felt he 
 would never get rid of the vibration. 
 
 The two little boys stood aghast. As 
 good luck would have it, the woman who 
 had met them at the gate was of an inquisi- 
 tive disposition ; and wondering what was 
 going on in the cottage, she had for some 
 time been peeping in at the window. 
 
 She understood at once the position of 
 affairs, and came hastily in. 
 
 Raising the old man from his chair, she 
 explained to him what had happened. It 
 was some minutes before he understood, for 
 he was bewildered and alarmed : but he 
 
156 
 
 MIISUNDEBSTCOD, 
 
 took it in at last, and the children had tne 
 satisfaction of receiving his thanks, and as- 
 surances that he was by no means ungrate- 
 ful for their present. 
 
 Then the woman spoke gently to him 
 through the trumpet, and his look of plea- 
 sure at hearing so clearly, and his ‘‘Well! 
 to be sure was a great delight to the two 
 little boys. 
 
 When Dyson had got accustomed to the 
 sound, he declared himself willing for Hum- 
 phrey to try again, but the woman suggest- 
 ed that Miles’s voice was the softest, to 
 which Humphrey agreed. 
 
 Miles took up the trumpet, and his gentle 
 “ Fm so sorry Hurnphie made you jump,” 
 was whispered so quietly, that Dyson only 
 just caught the sound. 
 
 Then the old man held it out to Hum- 
 phrey, who, not expecting it, had not got 
 anything to say. So no sooner had ne put 
 his lips to it than he went off into such fits 
 of laughter, that Dyson hastily removed the 
 trumpet, and began to rub his ear, “A3 e. 
 
MISUNDBU8T00D. 
 
 157 
 
 Dut it does tickle so.’ This made Hum 
 phrey laugh more, and the woman advised 
 his abandoning the attempt for that day. 
 
 By this time, however, Dyson had got so 
 pleased with his new accomplishment, that 
 he declared it his intention to go and pay 
 some visits in the village, saying it was 
 several years since he had had a good chat 
 with his neighbors. 
 
 But they all went, the old man hurrying 
 on at a great rate, so eager was he to show 
 off his newly-recovered powers. 
 
 The first person they met was Virginie, 
 and Dyson said he must have a word with 
 “ Mamselle.” 
 
 Humphrey was in an excited state, readv 
 for anything ; so while Virginie was talking, 
 he called Miles, and told him he thought it 
 would be a capital evening for the pond 
 where the water-lilies grew. There was a 
 stile at the side of the road, which he knew 
 to be a short cut to the pond, and he 
 had no doubt they would be able to find 
 their way. 
 
 14 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 158 
 
 No recolltction of his promise to his father 
 troubled his conscience ; and as they were 
 not going to climb the tree, even Virginie 
 could not object ! I 
 
 So he helped his little brother over the 
 stile, and then they both ran with all their 
 might. 
 
 Meanwhile Virginie, talking affably through 
 the trumpet, in the high road, did not notice 
 that they had disappeared. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HERE was an unusual stir in the quiet 
 
 -JL household of Wareham Abbey tr.at 
 evening ; for at nearly eight o’clock the tw T 
 little boys had not returned home. 
 
 Virginie had not been very much con- 
 cerned at their absence during the first few 
 hours, as they very often ran on before her, 
 and then betook themselves to some of their 
 favorite haunts. 
 
 But when tea-time came and passed, she 
 got uneasy, and went to look for them. 
 Her uneasiness changed to alarm when she 
 had visited in vain the dairy, laundry, swing, 
 gardens, and dog-kennel. Then, when it 
 came on to rain, her anxiety increased ; and 
 when from drizzling it changed to a stead j! 
 down-pom her “nerves’ gave way com 
 
 (>S9) 
 
l6o MISUNDEBSTOOD. 
 
 pletelj, and she returned home to consult 
 with the other servants as to what steps had 
 best be taken. 
 
 She went into the housekeeper’s room, 
 wringing her hands, and prognosticating 
 all sorts of evils to Miles. “ Never, never, 
 would he recover from the effects of such a 
 wetting!” 
 
 The gardener was dispatched one way 
 and the coachman another, bearing umbrel 
 las and goloshes. 
 
 The two little culprits were soon discov 
 ered sitting in a damp ditch, sheltering them 
 selves under a hedge. 
 
 Humphrey took great credit to himself 
 for having hit upon this plan. 
 
 “ The fact was,” he said, “ the pond and 
 the water-lilies had been so engrossing, that 
 he had forgotten all about the time till he 
 saw the sun beginning to sink ; then start- 
 ing off in a great hurry, they had taken the 
 wrong turning out of the field, and lost 
 their way in the wood ” 
 
 They were wandering on in the wrong 
 
MISITNDMJRSTOOD. i6| 
 
 direction, when they met a boy, who had 
 pointed out their mistake, and brought them 
 nack to the h gh road. Here Humphrey 
 nad suddenly recollected that rain was apt 
 to give his little brother cold, and with 
 great pride in his own forethought had es- 
 tablished him, dripping wet as he already 
 was, under the hedge where they had been 
 sitting for about half an hour before the 
 coachman found them. 
 
 It was no use Virginie venting her wrath 
 upon Humphrey. All that could be done 
 now, was to get Miles into bed as quickly as 
 could be, and ward off ill effects if possible. 
 
 But the mischief was done. Miles tossed 
 about all night, and woke next morning with 
 an oppression on his chest, which was al. 
 ways with him the forerunner of an attack 
 on the lungs. 
 
 The doctor came to see him, and ordered 
 him to be kept in bed. 
 
 Humphrey spent the morning with his 
 little brother, but was dismissed at last, as 
 walking only made Miles cough. * 
 
 14 * 
 
|62 MISUUJi ebstood. 
 
 In the afternoon Miles got worse, and 
 VTirginie sent off again for the doctor. 
 
 Humphrey kept out of her way, feeling 
 that he was in disgrace, and went out into 
 the garden. He felt dull and solitary with- 
 out his little brother, but, childlike, he had 
 not begun to be anxious, for Miles had often 
 been ill before, and had always got well 
 again. Still there was no fun in anything 
 without him, no exploit any satisfaction 
 without his applause. Humphrey betook 
 himself at last to the little gardens, where 
 he had a friend in the person of Dolly, the 
 laundry-maid. The gardens were close to 
 the laundr}!-, and often, when she was ironing 
 at the window, Dolly had watched the chil- 
 dren at their play, an i overheard their long 
 conversations. She was perhaps the onlji 
 person who had seen Humphrey in his seri- 
 ous moods. Unknown to him, she had wit- 
 nessed one of his rare bursts of feeling at 
 the time of his mother’s death, and after 
 that, had ever been one of his staunchest 
 supporters. She could never forget how 
 
MIS UND ERST 0 01}, 163 
 
 the little fellow had sobbed over the mus* 
 tard and cress he had sown for his mother 
 and which had come up too late ! 
 
 The weather had been dry for some time 
 previousl}^, and it had shown no sign of com- 
 ing up. Every day he had visited it, that 
 he might cut it for her to eat with her after- 
 noon tea ; but every visit had been in vain. 
 Then, on that sad day, when the funeral 
 train had borne away all that remained of 
 her, he had come to his garden in his rest- 
 less longing to escape from his sorrow, and 
 the first thing that had met his eye was the 
 green A. D. mocking him with its freshness 
 and luxuriance. 
 
 It’s no use now,” Dolly had heard him 
 sob ; ‘‘ I wish it had never come up !” 
 
 This was the very day he had been chas- 
 ing tne young lambs in the meadow, while 
 his father watched him from the window 
 and this was how it had ended. 
 
 Humphrey found a good deal to do in his 
 gaiden, and worked away busily for some 
 
164 
 
 MISJTNDESSTOOD. 
 
 time : he then assisted Dolly to turn the 
 mangle, and bottled some soap-suds for fi< 
 ture bubble blowing. He also informed hel 
 of the honor in store for her at the Harves 
 Home, and anxiously asked her what gown 
 she meant to wear cn the occasion. She 
 must be very smart, he said, awfully smart ! 
 Dolly confided her intention of investing in 
 a new print dress, and consulted him as to 
 the color. 
 
 Casting his thoughts back to the smartest 
 thing he had lately seen, they reverted to 
 the cigar-case, and he suggested crimson 
 and gold. 
 
 Dolly looked rather scared, and expressed 
 her doubts as to the probability of those 
 colors being found in any print sold in the 
 village. 
 
 “Yellow would do, you know,” said Hum- 
 phrey, “ and it would be like the corn.” 
 
 So Dolly promised to try and procure a 
 yellow print, with a red stripe or spot; and, 
 if that were impossible, a plain yellow one 
 could no doubt be found. 
 
MIS XJNV EM STOOD. 
 
 165 
 
 Time slipped by very quickly, but still 
 Humphrey rather wondered at last that no 
 one should call him in to his tea ; and after 
 a while he put his tools away, and wished 
 Dolly good-bye. 
 
 He gathered a few young radishes for a 
 treat for Miles, and then ran home. 
 
 He was surprised to find the nursery door 
 locked, and began to kick it. 
 
 “ Miles !” he called out, “ I’ve brought 
 you some radishes. Ouvrez, Virginie, c’est 
 r.oi !’ 
 
 The door was opened with an angry jerk, 
 and Virginie flounced into the passage. 
 
 Humphrey saw at a glance that she was 
 in one of what he and Miles called “ her 
 states,” but whether it was of anger or 
 alarm, he could not at first make out. It 
 was always a bad sign when her face was 
 enveloped in flannel, as was now the case. 
 Virginie always tied up her face on the 
 smallest provocation, though to what end 
 the children had never discovered. But 
 anyhow, she was sure to be out of tempei 
 
i66 
 
 MISUifDSBSTOOD. 
 
 when she did so, and Humphrey waited 
 rather anxiously to hear what she had to 
 say. 
 
 She burst into a voluble flow of talk, 
 which, owing to her excitement, the boy 
 found it difficult to follow. He managed 
 however, to gather that Miles was very, 
 very ill, that the doctor was very much 
 alarmed about him ; that it was all his 
 (Humphrey’s) fault ; that he had woke Miles 
 by kicking at the door just as she had hoped 
 he was going to get some sleep ; that he 
 was to go away and keep away, and that 
 everybody, including the doctor, was very 
 angry with him. 
 
 Then she retreated into the room, and 
 shut the door, leaving him standing in the 
 passage, with his bunch of radishes in his 
 hand. 
 
 All the light faded out of Humphrey’s 
 face, as he tried to think over what he had 
 just heard. 
 
 “Miles so ill that the doctor was tright 
 ened.” 
 
MIS UNDERSTO OB, 
 
 i6; 
 
 That was the most prominent idea at first, 
 and in his dread and apprehension, Hum« 
 phrey hardly dared move. 
 
 Sometimes he put his eye to the keyhole, 
 to see if he could discover what was going 
 on in the room, and then, lying down on the 
 door-mat, he listened with all his might. 
 
 The silence within, only broken by whis- 
 pering voices, frightened him, and his heart 
 began to beat loudly. 
 
 If only the child could have looked into 
 the room and seen his little brother lying in 
 bed half asleep, and Virginie putting a lin- 
 seed poultice on his chest, or whispering to 
 Jane to bring her his cooling-draught, his 
 fears would have vanished. 
 
 But it is ever so with sudden illness 
 Those who are kept in the dark always 
 have the worst of it ; for mystery and sus- 
 pense are, like anticipation, always worse 
 than reality. Imagination runs riot, and 
 brings great suffering to the outsiders 
 How much are children to be pitied on 
 these occasions! Everyone’s thoughts are 
 
i68 
 
 MIS UNDERSTO 01). 
 
 necessarily with the invalid, and no one has 
 lime to bestow a word on the poor little 
 trembling things standing outside the sick- 
 room. They feel they are useless, and con 
 sidered in the way ; and do not dare make 
 inquiries of the maids who run in and out 
 of the room with important faces, who prob- 
 ably could not stop to answer even if they 
 did ; and so are left to magnify every sound 
 into some terrible significance, which prob- 
 ably has no foundation but in their own dis- 
 ordered fancies. 
 
 There is terror in whispering voices, ag- 
 ony in the sharp ringing of a bell, mystery 
 even in the calling for spoons and glasses, 
 and their jingling as they are handed in. 
 
 All this, and more, was experienced b}^ 
 little Humphrey Buncombe. I say more, 
 because his fears were not those of ordinary 
 children. The dread I have been describ- 
 ing is for the most part a nameless dread ; 
 the children know not why they fear, nor 
 what ; it is all vague and undefined, because 
 they have no experience of sorrow. 
 
MI&VNDSBSTOOD. jfig 
 
 But remember that this child Avas no 
 stranger to sickness and death ; that into his 
 little life they had already entered ; that the 
 grim visitor had swept through the walls of 
 his home, and left it very empty. What 
 had happened once, might happen again. 
 So he gave it all up at once, “ Miles was dy- 
 ing ! perhaps already dead !” 
 
 A child of Humphrey’s disposition suffers 
 intensely when face to face with sorrow. 
 Granted that the power of being easily dis- 
 tracted is a mitigation, it does not alter the 
 feeling for the time. Life, past and future, 
 is grafted into the misery of the present, and 
 existence itself is a blank. 
 
 He was so tender-hearted, too, poor little 
 fellow ! so remorseful for his errors, so sen- 
 sitive to an unkind word. Yet, as we have 
 seen, with all this, he was so heedless, 
 thoughtless, and volatile, that no one could 
 give him credit for any depth of feeling; 
 and even his father (though he would not 
 have had it otherwise, though he rejoiced 
 that he should have the capability of turning 
 IS 
 
MIS VND ERST OOD. 
 
 17c 
 
 into enjoyment, both for himself and Mi es 
 every event of their lonely child-life) had 
 marvelled at him, and had more than once 
 Eaid to himself, “ The^boy has no heart !” 
 
 No heart! why, as we see him there in 
 the passage, his poor little heart is filled to 
 bursting. 
 
 Stung by Virginie’s harsh words, wrung 
 with fear for his little brother, alarmed as 
 much for his father’s grief as his father’s 
 anger, and remorseful at the thought of his 
 own broken promise, Humphrey sank down 
 on the ground, and cried as if his heart 
 would break. 
 
 In addition to the grief, it was such a 
 dreadful feeling, that, in a trouble like this, 
 no one cared to help him ; that h^ was look- 
 ed upon as the cause of it all ; that his hand 
 seemed against every man, and every man’? 
 hand against him. 
 
 His sorrow must be greater than theirs, 
 he reflected. Was not Miles more to him 
 than to ^ ’ 'ginie ? And yet they left him— ■ 
 sobbing and crying — unheeded. 
 
MISUNDEMSTOOD. 
 
 \ 7 \ 
 
 Lying there, crouched up by the door 
 such an a vlul sense of loneliness came down 
 upon the boy’s soul. In the hour of his 
 trouble he needed pity so much, and no one 
 gave it to him. 
 
 Then there arose in his heart such a 
 terrible longing for his mother ; such a 
 yearning, that would not be quieted, for all 
 that he had had, and all that he had lost ; 
 such an overwhelming sense of the void in 
 his life, that he could not bear it, and he 
 started to his feet with a sob which was 
 almost a cry. 
 
 This feeling must go, he could not bear it, 
 and he fought with it with desperation ; for 
 it was an old enemy, one with whom he had 
 often wrestled in desperate conflict before, 
 and upon whose attacks he always looked 
 back with horror. Deep down in his heart 
 it had its being, but it was onlv every 
 now and then that it rose up to troubl6 
 him. 
 
 Of late it had assailed him much less, its 
 attacks had been weaker, and occurring a> 
 
172 
 
 misvndehstoo^ 
 
 much longer intervals. Why has it risen 
 with such resentless force now ■ How is he 
 to resist it? How is he to fight with it? 
 Vids blank, empty feeling, how is he to 
 drive it away ? 
 
 He tried to think of his garden, of his 
 games, and of all the things which consti- 
 tuted the joy of his young existence. 
 
 Children of a larger growth, but children 
 in understanding still, do not many of us 
 wrestle with this undefined feeling in the 
 same way ? This mysterious thing, which 
 we, with our maturer experience, call sor- 
 row, is not our first thought when it assails 
 us, ‘‘ How shall we drive it away ?’' Call it 
 grief, despair, disappointment, anxiety, care 
 — call it what you will, do we not try tc 
 drown it in change of thought of some kind ? 
 Does it not drive the rich to society, travel- 
 ing, or excitement, and the poor to the pub- 
 lic-house ? 
 
 Here were the passages where he had 
 romped with Miles ; here were the stairs 
 down which he had jumped that very morn 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 m 
 
 ing, and the balustrades down which he nad 
 slid ; why did they look so different ? 
 
 God help him ! the emptiness in his heart 
 was so great, that it was repeating itself on 
 all around. There was no help to be got 
 from the feeling of his recent happiness in 
 the old house. Never had it seemed so 
 dreary ; never had he realized before what 
 an empty house it was, occupied only in one 
 corner by a nurse and two little boys. 
 
 There was no sound, no life anywhere ; 
 the twilight was creeping over the silent 
 hall and staircase, and he knew it was 
 deepening in the uninhabited rooms below. 
 And then, as if to mock him with the con- 
 trast, came before him so vivid a recollec- 
 tion of life with his mother in the house ; of 
 her voice and her laugh upon that staircase ; 
 of her presence in those rooms ; so clear and 
 distinct a vision of her soft eyes and gentle 
 smile, that the motherless child could bear 
 it no longer, and covering his face with his 
 hands to shut out the sight of the empti- 
 ness, he fled away down the passage, as 
 
m 
 
 MJSUJVDMBSTOOn. 
 
 if he thought to leave the desolation be. 
 
 hind. 
 
 But the emptiness was with him as he 
 went ; all down the stairs and through the 
 hall it pursued him ; it gained upon him as 
 he stood with his hand upon the drawing- 
 room door ; it preceded him into the dark- 
 ened room, and was waiting for him when 
 he entered. 
 
 The light that came in through the chinks 
 of the shutters was very faint, but his long- 
 ing eye sought the picture, and he could just 
 distinguish the sweet face and the smiling 
 babe in her arms. 
 
 He ran forward, and threw himself on the 
 sofa beneath it. 
 
 “ Mother !” he sobbed, “ I want you back 
 so much ! Every one is angry with me, and 
 I am so very miserable !” 
 
 Cold, blank silence all around ; mother 
 and child smiled on, unconscious of his 
 words ; even as he gazed the light faded 
 away from the picture, and he was left alone 
 ui the gathering darkness ! 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 m 
 
 In vain he tried to fancy himself once 
 more the child in the picture; in vain he 
 tried to fancy he felt her arms around him, 
 and her shoulder against his head. It would 
 not do ! In fits of passion or disobedience 
 he had come here, and the memory of his 
 mother had soothed him, and sent him away 
 penitent ; but in this dreadful sense of lone- 
 liness he wa Ated comfort, and of comfort he 
 found none 
 
 ***** 
 
 Yet was there comfort near, if he would 
 but ask for it, and of the very kind he want- 
 ed : “ As :>ne whom his mother comforteth, 
 so will I comfort you.” He knew it not ; 
 he cried uot for it. He was not ignorant of 
 God’s '.mnipresence ; in ordinary times the 
 boy be leved with a child’s simple faith that 
 God w as always near him, but in the hour 
 of his trouble he was incapable of deriving 
 any comfort from the knowledge, incapable 
 of aay thought but his own sorrow. 
 
 Children of a larger growth, but children 
 in understanding still, do not many of us, in 
 
1^6 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 spite of our maturer experience, dc likewise? 
 “ There is no help,” we say ; “ our trouble 
 is greater than we can bear.” We lie like 
 the child, crushed and despairing, and God, 
 who at other times we feel to be so near, 
 seems hidden from us altogether. 
 
 But thank God it is only seems, not is. 
 He is unchangeable, and unaffected by our 
 changeability. Hidden, it may be, by the 
 cloud we have ourselves raised, the dark 
 cloud of hopelessness. He is still there, the 
 Same whose presence we realise so fully in 
 happier moments. “ He,” says a writer of 
 the present century, “ is immutable, un- 
 changeable, while we are different every 
 hour. What He is in Himself, the great 
 unalterable I Am, not what we in this or 
 that moment feel Him to be, that is our 
 hope.” 
 
 The comfort, then, for us and for the 
 stricken child is, that though we may not at 
 such times do our part. He is ever ready 
 to do His; and it would almost seem as if 
 He were providing for this state of feeling 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 177 
 
 when he says, “ Before they call, I will 
 answer.” But what could be done for the 
 child in the terrible hour of his trouble? 
 We know not, but God knew. The little 
 neart was open before Him, and He knew 
 th at his sorrow would flee at morning light, 
 and that he only wanted comfort for the 
 present moment. So, looking pityingly 
 down upon the lonely child. He sent him 
 the only thing that could help him — laid 
 gently upon his heavy eyelids the only gift 
 that could do him any good — giving him 
 the peace of unconsciousness till the hour of 
 sorrow and sighing should pass away ! 
 
 There one of the maids found him an hour 
 or so later, and carried him up to bed with 
 out waking him. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 H umphrey slept late the next raorii- 
 ing, and the sun was streaming on 
 his face when he awoke. 
 
 He sprang out of bed with an exclamation 
 of delight at seeing such a fine day, and then 
 started back in surprise at finding himsell in 
 a strange room. 
 
 Recollections of last night were beginning 
 to steal over him, when the door opened, 
 and Jane came in. 
 
 “ At last ! Master Humphrey. Why I 
 thought you were never going to wake up ! 
 Master Miles has been asking for you for 
 ever so long !” 
 
 “Then he’s better, is he?” said Hum* 
 phrey, eagerly. 
 
 (« 78 ) 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 179 
 
 “Better!” exclaimed Jane, in a. sprightly 
 tone; “ why bless you, he’s quite well.” 
 
 Jane had been the one to find Humphrey 
 in the drawing-room the night before, and 
 had guessed by his tear-stained face how it 
 had been. 
 
 She was not equivocating; Miles had 
 taken a turn for the better in the night, and 
 there was no further anxiety about him. 
 
 Humphrey’s spirits rose immediately to 
 their usual height ; he dressed himself in a 
 great hurry, and soon the two little brothers 
 were together again. 
 
 Humphrey did not allude to his troubles 
 of the evening before. Perhaps he had 
 already forgotten them ; or if they did recur 
 to his memory, it was with a dull, dead 
 sense of pain which he had no wish to call 
 into life again. 
 
 His was a nature that was only too glad 
 to escape from such recollections. His 
 buoyant spirits and volatile disposition 
 helped him to throw off sad memories, and 
 never had he been gayer or wilder than on 
 
£8o misjjndebstood. 
 
 this morning, as he laughed and talked, and 
 played by his brother’s bedside. 
 
 It was a glorious day, Miles was nearly 
 well, his father was coming (In obedience to 
 Virginie s letter), and life seemed to him one 
 flood of sunshine. 
 
 Virginie, however, still shaky from hei 
 late anxiety, and with her head ominousl;y 
 tied up with flannel, looked grimly on his 
 mirth. She did not understand the boy: 
 how should she? She was feeling very sore 
 with him for having caused all this trouble ; 
 she was, of course, ignorant of what he had 
 suffered, and she looked upon his noisy 
 merriment as only another proof of his usual 
 heartlessness. 
 
 Humphrey was not in the room when his 
 father arrived, having gone out for a run in 
 the garden ; so Virginie had no check in 
 pouring out her complaint. 
 
 Sir Everard was startled at the effect the 
 short illness had had upon Miles, and lis- 
 tened more patiently than usual. 
 
 The delicate child looked so much like 
 
MISUNDMBiSTOOD jgi 
 
 his mother as he lay in bed, with his flushed 
 cheeks and lustrous eyes, that the vague 
 fear about him, that almost always haunted 
 the father, took a more definite shape. 
 
 Certainly Virginie’s account ot Hum- 
 phrey’s disobedience was not calculated to 
 soften him towards the boy, and he really 
 felt more angry with him than he had 
 ever done before. 
 
 Little Miles was particularly engaging 
 that day, so delighted to see his father, and 
 so caressing in his ways, that Humphrey’s 
 want of heart seemed to stand out in sharp- 
 er contrast. Sir Everard could not tear 
 himself away from the little fellow for some 
 time, and the more coaxing the child was, 
 the more painfully came home to the father 
 the thought of having so nearly lost him. 
 
 On descending from the nursery. Sir Ever- 
 ard went into the library, and ringing the 
 bell, desired that Master Buncombe should 
 be sent to him immediately. 
 
 “ I don’t suppose I shall make any impres- 
 sion upon him,” he said to himself while he 
 
 i6 
 
MlSUNDEBSTOOl), 
 
 182 
 
 waited, ‘‘but I must try/' He never ex 
 pected much of Humphrey, but he waa 
 hardly prepared for the boisterous opening 
 of the door, and the gay aspect of the boy 
 as he bounded into the room. 
 
 Sir Everard was, as we have seen, always 
 loth to scold or punish either of his mother 
 less children, and when it must be done, he 
 schooled himself to do it from a sense of 
 duty But the bold, and, as it seemed to 
 him, defiant way in which the boy presented 
 himself, fairly angered him, and it was in a 
 tone of no forced displeasure that he ex 
 claimed, “ What do you mean, sir, by com 
 ing into the room like that?" 
 
 Now Humphrey had been busy working 
 in his garden when his father's message had 
 reached him, in happy forgetfulness of his 
 recent conduct and his brother's recent 
 danger. 
 
 In the excitement of hearing of his father's 
 arrival, he had overlooked the probability 
 of his displeasure ; and it was with unfeign* 
 ed astonishment that he heard himself thiw 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. xgj 
 
 greeted. His wondering expression only 
 irritated his father the more 
 “ Don’t stand there, looking as if you 
 thought you had done nothing wrong,” he 
 exclaimed testily; “do you think you are 
 to lead your poor little brother into danger, 
 and make him ill, and then not to be found 
 fault with ? Don’t you know that you have 
 disobeyed me, and broken your promise? 
 Did I not forbid you to go near that pond ? 
 I tell you I won’t have it, and you shall go 
 to school if you can’t behave better at home. 
 Do you hear me, sir? what do you mean by 
 behaving in this way ?” 
 
 Humphrey understood now. His lips 
 quivered, and his cheek flushed at hearing 
 himself so sternly spoken to, and he dared 
 not attempt to answer, lest he should dis- 
 grace himself by tears. 
 
 Sir Everard’s anger soon evaporated. 
 
 “ You see, Humphrey,” he went on more 
 gently, “ it is always the same thing. Day 
 after day and week after week I havn the 
 same complaints of you. I should have 
 
184 
 
 MISUA DERSTOOD. 
 
 thought you were old enough now to re- 
 raember that Miles is very delicate; and that 
 you would have taken care of him, instead 
 of leading him into mischief. Do you know,” 
 he concluded, suddenly dropping his voice, 
 “ that we have very nearly lost your little 
 brother ?” 
 
 To Sir Everard’s surprise, Humphrey 
 burst into a passion of tears. The words 
 brought back to him the suffering of last 
 night with a sharp pang, and his whole 
 frame shook with sobs. 
 
 Sir Everard was instantly melted. Like 
 most men, the sight of tears had a magical 
 effect upon him ; and he took the child on 
 his knee, and tried to comfort him. 
 
 “ There, there,” he said soothingly, as he 
 stroked the curly head, “that will do; I 
 must not expect old heads on young shouh 
 ders ; but you must try and remember what 
 I tell you, and not disobey me any more. 
 And now give me a kiss, and run out, and 
 have a game of cricket.’ 
 
 Humphrey lifted up his tear-stained face 
 
MIS, und:erstooi>. igj 
 
 and gladly received the kiss of forgive- 
 ness 
 
 A few minutes after he was playing single 
 wicket in the field with the footman, with- 
 out a t\*ace of sorrow on his countenance or 
 a sad thought in his heart. 
 
 But Sir Everard remained in the library, 
 perturbed and uneasy. Miles’s fragile ap- 
 pearance had made him nervous, and he 
 was thinking how easily any little chill 
 might bring on inflammation again. He 
 was well versed in all the sudden relapses 
 and as sudden improvements of delicate 
 lungs. Had he not watched them hour by 
 hour? Did he not know every step? It 
 was an attack like this that had preceded 
 his wife’s slow fading. Daily had he watch- 
 ed the flush deepen and the features sharpen 
 on a face which was so like the little face 
 ip-stairs, that, as he thought of them both, 
 ne could hardly separate the two. 
 
 Something must be done to prevent the 
 recurrence of any risks for Miles. But 
 what? It was clear that Humphrey was 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 1 86 
 
 not to be trusted ; and yet Sir Everard could 
 not bear to spoil the children’s fun by sep- 
 arating them, or by letting Virginie mount 
 in too strict guard over them. She was a 
 nervous woman, and too apt to think every- 
 thing they did had danger in it.* 
 
 Boys must amuse themselves,” he re- 
 flected ; “ and at Humphrey’s age it is nat- 
 ural they should do extraordinary things. 
 I don’t want to make him a muff.” Invol- 
 untarily he smiled at the idea of Hum- 
 phrey being a muff. How easily Miles 
 might have fallen into that horrid pond ! 
 The slightest push from Humphrey, who 
 never looks where he is going, would have 
 sent him in. Would he ever have recov- 
 ered the effects of a wholesale soaking? 
 However,” he concluded, half out loud, as 
 he rose to return to the nursery, the ses- 
 sion is nearly over, and I shall be down 
 here, and able to look after them myself. 
 And meanwhile I shall remain on for a day 
 or two, till Miles is quite well again.” 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I T was a pleasant little holiday that Sit 
 - Everard spent with his children during 
 the days that followed; and often in after 
 years did he look back upon it with a ten- 
 der regret. 
 
 Miles’s health improved steadily, and in a 
 little while he was allowed to be carried in 
 the afternoon to his father’s dressing-room 
 where, nestled in a huge arm-chair, with his 
 father and Humphrey sitting by, he passed 
 some very happy hours. Sometimes they 
 played games, or else Sir Everard would 
 read out loud from a book of fairy tales 
 he had brought from London. One evening 
 he read a story which greatly delighted both 
 little boys. It was about a wonderfu mir- 
 ror, which had the power of showing to its 
 
 (187) 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 1 88 
 
 owner what any of his absent friends might 
 be doing at the moment he was looking 
 into it. 
 
 Oh, how I wish I could have such a mir- 
 ror!’' said Humphrey, very earnestly. 
 
 How I wish I could !” echoed Miles. 
 
 Do you ?” said Sir Everard ; I wonder 
 why.” 
 
 Humphrey did not answer ; he was gazing 
 out of the window in deep thought. 
 
 Who would you look for, my little 
 man?” asked Sir Everard of Miles. 
 
 I should look for you, dear Fardie.” 
 
 ‘‘ But I am here, darling.” 
 
 Not always,” said Miles, laying his little 
 hand caressingly on Sir Everard’s. When 
 you are away in London, I should like to 
 look in and see what you are doing.” 
 
 It was by these engaging little words and 
 ways, that Miles had wound himself so 
 closely round his father’s heart. 
 
 So you would like to see me when I am 
 away,” he said, stroking the child’s hand 
 ‘do you miss me when I’m not with you? 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 189 
 
 “ So much, Fardie ; I wish you would 
 never go. Humphie, don’t we miss Fardie 
 dreadfully when he’s away, and wish he 
 would never go?” 
 
 Sir Everard glanced at his elder boy, as 
 if hoping to hear him confirm his little 
 brother’s words, but Humphrey was still 
 looking thoughtfully up, out of the window, 
 and took no notice. 
 
 “ What is he thinking about ?” whispered 
 Sir Ev'erard to Miles. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said Miles, softly ; “ per 
 haps he’s wishing very hard for a mirror.” 
 
 Whatever the boy was wishing for, ii 
 must have been something which he felt he 
 could never have, for the brown eyes were 
 full of tears as they gazed up into the blue 
 sky. 
 
 “ Wait a minute,” breathed Miles, “ he’ll 
 say how we miss you, when he’s done think- 
 ing; often, when he’s thinking, he doesn’t 
 answer me till he’s quite done what ne’s 
 thinking about.” 
 
 With the tears still standing in them, the 
 
190 
 
 MI8UNDMBST00D. 
 
 eyes suddenly sparkled with a new feeling, 
 and Humphrey sprang to the window, ex- 
 claiming, — 
 
 “A hawk! I do declare; and he’ll have 
 the sparrow in a minute !” 
 
 Sir Everard looked disappointed, and 
 drew Miles closer to him. 
 
 “ He’s not thinking about us, is he, dar 
 ling ?” 
 
 “ Eh !” exclaimed Humphrey, starting, 
 “ were you speaking to me ? What did you 
 say. Miles?” 
 
 “ It was about the glass, Humphie ; I said 
 we should like so much to see what Fardie 
 is doing in London sometimes.” 
 
 “ Oh, wouldn’t it be fun 1” said Humphrey, 
 seating himself by his brother ; “ sometimes 
 we should see him in his club, and sometimes 
 in a Hansom cab, and sometimes we should 
 see you making a speech in the House of 
 Parliament, shouldn’t we, father, with your 
 arm out, and a great sheet all round you, 
 like the statue of Mr. Pitt down stairs?” 
 
 Sir Everard laughed. 
 
MISUNDEBSTO OB. 
 
 I9I 
 
 “ Not very often,” I think. 
 
 “ How should we see you, Fardie?” 
 
 “ I’m afraid, if you looked late in the even- 
 hig, you would often see me so,” he answer- 
 ed, folding his arms, and shutting his eyes. 
 
 “ What, asleep !” exclaimed the children. 
 
 “ Fast asleep,” returned their father. 
 
 “ Isn’t the Queen very angry with you ?’ 
 inquired Miles. 
 
 “ The Queen is generally asleep herself at 
 such hours.” 
 
 “ What! in the House of Parliament?” 
 
 “ No ; but in one or other of her palaces.” 
 
 “ But she isn’t always asleep at night,” 
 said Humphrey, in a superior tone ; “ some- 
 times she sits up very late, and has a ball. 
 I know a picture of her giving a ball, in the 
 old book of prints down-stairs.” 
 
 The volume in question bore the date of 
 1710, and the engraving represented the 
 court of Queen Anne, but it was all the 
 same to Humphrey. 
 
 “ Do you ever go to the Queen’s ball 
 Fardie inquired Miles. 
 
192 
 
 MISUNDEBSTOOD. 
 
 “Yes, dear, I have been, but not fcr a 
 long time.” 
 
 “ Father’s too old for balls now,” observed 
 Humphrey. “Ain’t you, father?” 
 
 “ My dancing days are over, yes,” said Sir 
 Everard, absently. He was thinking how 
 lovely his wife had looked at the last court 
 ball he had been to. 
 
 “ Do they dance ‘ Up the middle and 
 down again,’ Fardie ?” 
 
 “ No,” answered Sir Everard, smiling, 
 “ quadrilles and valses mostly.” 
 
 “ I suppose when you were young and 
 went to balls, they used to dance the 
 minuet ?” said Humphrey. “ Used you to 
 wear a pig-tail, father ?” 
 
 “ Upon my word !” said Sir Everard, 
 “ why, how old do you think I am ?” 
 
 The children had no idea, and amused 
 themselves for the next ten minutes by try 
 ing to guess, their conjectures varying be- 
 tween sixty and ninety. 
 
 “ Will you come for a run, father ?” said 
 Humphrey, presently. 
 
Min UNVJUMSTOOD. 
 
 193 
 
 “ It’s a little hot for running, isn t it ?” an- 
 swered Sir Everard ; “ but if you are tired 
 of being indoors, you can go in the garden, 
 and I will join you in about an hour.” 
 
 “We might go to the village, mightn’t we, 
 and spend my pennies ? Dyson’s got his 
 trumpet, so there’s nothing to save for, and 
 I should like to spend them.” 
 
 “ V ery well : where shall I find you ?” 
 
 “ I shall be feeding my jackdaw, or work- 
 ing in my garden ; or, perhaps,” after a mo- 
 ment’s reflection, “ I might be sitting at the 
 top of the apple tree, or running along the 
 kitchen garden wall. But if you don’t find 
 me in any of those places, look in the hen- 
 house. I might be getting an egg there for 
 Miles’ tea.” 
 
 “ But isn’t the hen-house kept locked ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, but that doesn’t matter a bit. I 
 always squeeze myself through the hen’s 
 little trap door.” 
 
 “ You don’t expect me to do the same, I 
 hope ?” 
 
 Humphrej'’s sense of the ridiculous was 
 
 17 
 
194 
 
 MIS INDBBSTOOD. 
 
 tickled by the idea of his father’s tali fona 
 struggling through the little hole of a few 
 inches wide ; and his merry laugh echoed 
 through the room. 
 
 “ What fun it would be !” he exclaimed, 
 “ you’d stick in the middle, and not be able 
 to get in or out. How you would kick !” 
 
 Little Miles laughed till he coughed, and 
 Sir Everard was obliged to dismiss Humph- 
 rey to the garden. 
 
 Humphrey was not engaged in any of 
 the employments he had mentioned when 
 his father joined him an hour later. He 
 was standing gazing thoughtfully at the 
 lame jackdaw hopping about on his wooden 
 leg. 
 
 “ What a funny boy you are,” said his 
 father, laying a hand on his shoulder. “ I do 
 believe you care more for that ugly old jack- 
 daw than for anything else that you have. 
 He always seems to me the most uninterest 
 ing of creatures and I’m sure he is very un- 
 grateful, foi’ the kinder you are to him the 
 crosser he gets.” 
 
MIS UMMMSSfO OJ}. 
 
 Yes, he’s very cross, poor old fellow 1’ 
 said Humphrey, “ Look!” holding out his 
 hand, which bore unmistakable evidence of 
 a bird’s beak, “ how he’s pecked me. He 
 always does whenever I feed him.” 
 
 “ I should almost be inclined not to feea 
 him then.” 
 
 ” I coiddn’t let him starve, you know 
 Besides, 1 don’t wonder he’s cross. It’s 
 enough to make any one angry to be always 
 hopping about in one little place, instead ol 
 having the whole world to fly about in. 
 And if it wasn’t for me,” he added, half to 
 himself, “ he would be flying about now.” 
 
 Sir Everard did not catch the last words, 
 but the boy’s face reminded him that he had 
 touched on a painful subject, and he has- 
 tened to change it by proposing they should 
 start for the village. 
 
 Humphrey brightened up directly, and 
 was soon talking as gaily as usual. The 
 painfulness of the subject consisted in this. 
 
 One day, Humphrey and Miles were 
 amusing themselves in their gardens, when 
 
MlSlTNDMBSiOOD. 
 
 196 
 
 the jackdaw, then young and active, cams 
 flying past. 
 
 Hui-iphrey without the slightest idea of 
 touching it, flung a stone at it, exclaiming, 
 “ Get away, old fellow !” 
 
 But so unerring was his aim, that the 
 stone struck the bird on the wing, and 
 brought it struggling and fluttering to the 
 ground. 
 
 Dolly, the laundry-maid, was close at hand, 
 and she never forgot Humphrey’s burst of 
 grief and remorse, when, on picking up the 
 jackdaw, they found both leg and wing 
 broken. That a living creature should be 
 deprived of its powers by his means was 
 more than the tender-hearted child could 
 bear, and for a long while he was inconsol- 
 able. 
 
 In due time the bird had been supplied 
 with a wooden leg through Dolly, by whom 
 it had ever since been carefully tended, but 
 its life, in Humphre}'’s eyes, was over; and 
 he never passed the cage without a pang. 
 He seldom spoke of it, it was too sore a 
 
MIS HKD ERST OOD. 
 
 19; 
 
 ti ibject ; but his attention to the lame bird 
 had from that day to this never relaxed fo' 
 an instant. 
 
 On the way to tne village, Sir Everard 
 questioned him on his progress with his 
 lessons. 
 
 Humphrey always gave a capital account 
 of himself; reading, writing, French, every- 
 thing, according to him, was going on as 
 swimmingly as possible. 
 
 Sir Everard’s faith in these reports had 
 been rather shaken since the memorable oc- 
 casion when, relying on Humphrey’s confi- 
 dent assertion, that he now knew the auxi- 
 liary verbs perfectly, he had, with a father’s 
 p’^de, called upon him suddenly to repeat 
 the verb “ avoir ” to his grandmother. She 
 was a lady of the old school, and a great 
 stickler for early education : and he had 
 been rather nettled by an observation that 
 had dropped from her, to the effect that 
 Humphrey was rather backward. 
 
 “ Indeed, mother,” he had answered, “ 1 
 think few boys of his age know so much of 
 17* 
 
MISUJsDERSTOOI). 
 
 198 
 
 French, fie speaks it perfectly, and is well 
 grounded in the grammar.’’ 
 
 To prove which, Hvmphre}^ had been 
 called out of the garden, and, to his father’s 
 dismay, had conjugated the first tense of the 
 /erb in the following manner : — 
 
 J’ai 
 Tu as 
 II a 
 
 Nous sommes 
 Vous etes 
 Us sont. 
 
 Conversation did not flag for a moment as 
 they walked along. 
 
 On the subject of history, Humphrey not 
 only professed to be, but was, well informed. 
 It gave food to his imagination, and he de- 
 lighted in it. Sir Everard felt quite brushed 
 up in the early parts of history before they 
 reached the village, and Humphrey himseli 
 was so taken up with his subject, that he 
 readily agreed to give up his expedition to 
 the shop, so that they might extend their 
 wa k by returning home another way. 
 
MIS UNDE MS TOOD. 
 
 199 
 
 “ Wa shall pass little lame Tom, anyhow,' 
 K > said, “ and I can give my pennies to him 
 instead.” 
 
 Lame Tom was a little cripple, who sat 
 all day long in a little wooden chair, and 
 was an object of great commiseration to 
 Bumphrey. A creature who had never 
 known what it was to v/alk, run, or climb, 
 and had to sit still in a chair from year’s end 
 to year’s end ! How keenly such a con- 
 dition appealed to the pity of such a nature 
 as Humphrey’s ! 
 
 He gave him his pennies as he passed, 
 and then resumed his conversation with his 
 %ther. 
 
 It was nearly dinner-time when they 
 reached home, and Miles was eagerly wait- 
 ing for his game of “ Spelicans ” with Sir 
 Everard. He was, however, never quite 
 happy unless Humphrey was included in his 
 amusements, if he happened to be present : 
 so after a time “ Spelicans ” was changed to 
 
 Old Maid,” a game of which both boys 
 were particularly fond. 
 
200 
 
 MlSVNDEMaTOOD, 
 
 No *‘lady of a certain age” could have 
 shown more eagerness to get rid of the fatal 
 Queen than did the two little brothers, and 
 they played as if their whole future de- 
 pended upon it. 
 
 Great was their delight and exultation 
 when, at the end of the game, they found 
 they had both escaped the fate of single 
 blessedness; and, with great clapping of 
 hands and other demonstrations of triumph, 
 Sir Everard was informed that he “ would 
 be an old maid.” 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I T was a lovely day, real harvest weather, 
 when Sir Everard Duncombe and his 
 two little boys took their way to the corn- 
 field to see the new machine at work. 
 
 Sir Everard was going up to town that 
 evening, but it was for the last time ; and 
 then, to the children’s delight, he had pro- 
 mised to come down for good, and had 
 settled that the Harvest Home should take 
 place early in the ensuing week. 
 
 The corn-field presented a gay appear- 
 ance when they reached it. The new ma- 
 chine, drawn by two fine horses, and driven 
 by the bailiff, was careering along the com, 
 with the reapers all running by the side. 
 Down fell the golden grain on all sides, and 
 eager hands collected and bound it up. 
 
 (»0l) 
 
 
202 
 
 MIS UNDESSTOOD. 
 
 With a shout of joy, Humphrey was 
 among them, hindering every one and alarm- 
 ing his father by continually getting in the 
 way of the machine and the horses. 
 
 Of course he was not long content with 
 so subordinate a part in the proceedings; 
 and came to beg his father to let him mount 
 up on the little seat by the bailiff’s side. 
 
 Sir Everard assisted him up, and the 
 machine went off again, followed by the 
 reapers. 
 
 By and by. Sir Everard looked at his 
 watch, and found it was time to be making 
 his way to the station. The children were 
 so happy, he had not the heart to take them 
 away. 
 
 “ They are quite safe,” he reflected, “ with 
 so many people about ; and I will send Vir- 
 ginie to them, as I pass the house.” 
 
 Humphrey was out of sight, so Sir Ever- 
 ard told Miles (who was playing with the 
 “little girl at the lodge”) to look out for 
 Virgin! e, and to say “good-bye” for him to 
 Humphrey. 
 
MIS USD JEU STOOD. 
 
 203 
 
 Little Mi es held up his face to be kissed 
 •> ft thin face it was still — and said : “ You’ll 
 ct rae back soon, Fardie, and not go away 
 any more?” 
 
 “Very soon, my darling; and then not 
 leave you again till next year ! W e’ll have 
 great fun, and you must be a good little 
 man, and not get ill any more.” 
 
 “ I promise, Fardie.” 
 
 Sir Everard smiled rather sadly, kissed 
 the child over and over again, and then 
 walked away. 
 
 When he got to the gate, he turned round 
 to have one more look at the gay scene. 
 Miles was still standing where he had left 
 him, gazing after his father, and kissing his 
 hand. His was the prominent figure in the 
 foreground, surrcRinded by the golden corn. 
 Away behind him stretched the lovely land- 
 scape, and in the background was the ma- 
 chine returning to its starting point followed 
 by the reapeis. Humphrey, sitting by the 
 bailiff, had now got the reins in his own hands, 
 ftnd was cheering on the horses as he came 
 
204 
 
 MIST7NDEBSX00D. 
 
 So Sir Everard left them. 
 
 Excitement cannot last for ever, and aftet 
 a time, Humphrey got tired of driving, and 
 got down to play with his little brother 
 They followed the machine once or twdce, 
 picking up the corn, but it was hot work, 
 and they went to rest under the hedge. 
 
 “ It is very hot, even here,” said Hum 
 phrey, taking off his hat, and fanning him- 
 self. “ I think we’ll go and sit under the 
 tree in the next field, where we sat the Sun- 
 da}^ Uncle Charlie was here. Come along.” 
 
 They climbed over the gate, and made for 
 the tree, where they sat down on the 
 grass. 
 
 “ How jolly Uncle Charlie’s stories were,*’ 
 sighed Humphrey ; “ how I wish we could 
 hear them all over again. It’s a great pity 
 father ever told me not to climb the bough 
 that sticks out. It would have been the 
 very thing to crawl along, like the man in 
 that story. Father says its rotten and /.n- 
 safe. I think he must make a mistake- it 
 ►ooks as strong as possible !” 
 
MISUNDSnSTOOD. 
 
 205 
 
 He sighed again, and there was a long 
 pause. 
 
 Presently he resumed. “ I don’t see why 
 we shouldn’t go and look. It would be so 
 cool by the pond.” 
 
 “Oh! YLnm^hxQ, please don't. We shall 
 lose our way, and Virginie will be so angry.” 
 
 “ But I know the way quite well from 
 here. Miles. It was only because we started 
 from Dyson’s cottage that I lost it before.” 
 
 “ But, Humphie, if we get wet again ! I 
 promised fardie not to get ill.” 
 
 “ The rain made you wet. Miles, not the 
 pond; and it’s not going to rain to-day. 
 Look what a blue sky I” 
 
 The two little brothers gazed upwards. 
 It was clear overhead, but there was a sus- 
 picious bank of clouds in the distance. 
 
 “ Those clouds won’t come down tili 
 night,” Humphrey observed. “ Come along. 
 It’s not very far.” 
 
 “ Better not, Humphie.” 
 
 “ I’m only going to look. Miles. Wh?if 
 aie you afraid of?” 
 
 18 
 
 r 
 
2 o 6 MISUKDE£ST00D. 
 
 “Don’t know, Humphie,” answered thfl 
 little fellow, with a tiny shake in his voice; 
 ‘ but please don’t let us go !” 
 
 “ Well, you needn't come if you don’t like, 
 ril go alone — I shan’t be long.” 
 
 But Miles didn’t like being left in the field 
 by himself ; so with a little sigh, he got up, 
 and put his hand in his brother’s. 
 
 “ I’ll come,” he said, resignedly. 
 
 “ That’s right,” said Humphrey ; “ there’s 
 nothing to be afraid of — is there ?” 
 
 “ No,” said the child ; but his face was 
 troubled, and his voice still shook a little. 
 
 So over the grass the two little brothers 
 went, hand in hand, till in an adjoining field 
 they saw the waters of the p')nd gleaming 
 like silver in the summer sunshine. Side by 
 side they stood on its brink. 
 
 “We’re only going to look, jou .'cnow,” 
 said Humphrey. 
 
 They were the first words he had spoken 
 for some time, and they came so suddenly 
 that Miles started as they fell on the still 
 air. They seo.med to arouse the iniabitants 
 
MIS UN DEBS TOOD. 
 
 20J 
 
 01 ihat secluded spot, for a bird flew out of 
 the tree, and soared away with a scared 
 chirrup, which fell with a melancholy sound 
 on the children’s ears; and a water-rat 
 bounded from under a lily-leaf, and plunged 
 with a dull splash into another part of the 
 pond. 
 
 Innumerable insects skimmed across the 
 surface of the water, and one or two bees 
 droned idly, as they flew from one water 
 lily to another. 
 
 The branch of the tree that stretched over 
 the pond dipped its topmost leaves into the 
 water with a sleepy sound; as the breeze 
 swayed it gently backwards and foi wards, 
 the water-lilies danced lightly with the 
 movement of the water ; and there was over 
 the whole place a sense of repose and an 
 isolatkii which infected the children with its 
 dreaminess, keeping even Humphrey silent, 
 and making little Miles feel sad. 
 
 “ Let’s go, Humphic.” 
 
 “Not yet,” answered Humphrey, recov 
 Bring from his fit of abstraction, and moving 
 
208 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 towards the tree: “I want to look at the 
 branch. Why, it’s not rotten a bit !” he ex- 
 claimed, as he examined it. “ I do believe 
 it would hold us quite well !” 
 
 He clasped his arms round the trunk of 
 tne tree, and propelled himself upwards, 
 where he was soon lost to view in the thick 
 foliage. 
 
 Miles gave a little sigh; he could not 
 shake off the melancholy that oppressed 
 him, and he was longing to get away from 
 the place. 
 
 Presently Humphrey’s ringing laugh was 
 heard, and Miles, looking up. saw him 
 crawling along the branch which stretched 
 out over the water. His face was flushed, 
 and his eyes sparkling with excitement, and 
 he was utterly regardless of the shivering 
 and shaking of the branch under his weight. 
 When he had got out a certain distance he 
 returned, and throwing his arms once more 
 round the upper part of the trunk, he raised 
 himself to his feet and stood upright, trium 
 phant. 
 
MISUNDMSSTOOJ}. 
 
 209 
 
 “There!” he exclaimed — “I’ve done it. 
 Who says it’s dangerous now ? It’s as safe 
 as safe can be. Come up^ Miles. \ ou can’t 
 think how jolly it is !” 
 
 Miles drew a long breath. “ Must I really 
 really come ?” 
 
 “ Why not ? you see how easily I did it. 
 Give me your hand, and I’ll help you up.” 
 
 Bright and beautiful was the aspect of the 
 elder boy, as he stood above, with his grace- 
 ful figure clearly defined against the green 
 foliage, one arm thrown carelessly round a 
 bough, and the other outstretched to his 
 little brother; and very lovely the expres- 
 sion of wistful uncertainty on the face of the 
 younger one, as he stood below, with his 
 eyes upraised so timidly to his brother’s 
 face, and his hands nervously clasped to- 
 gether. 
 
 Involuntarily he shrank back a little, and 
 there was a pause. 
 
 He looked all around the secluded spot, 
 as if to find help, as if to discover a looo* 
 nole whereby he might escape, even at the 
 
210 
 
 MIS UNB EBSTO 0J>. 
 
 eleventh hour. But the insects skimming 
 from side to side of the pond, the water- 
 yilies dancing gently on the surface, vrere 
 still the only animate things to be seen, and 
 no sound was to be heard save the dipping 
 of the branch into the water, and the splash 
 of the active water-rat. They were power- 
 less to help him, and he resigned himself to 
 Humphrey’s will. 
 
 I know I shall be kilt^ but Fll come,” he 
 said ; and he held out his shaking little 
 hand. 
 
 Humphrey grasped it tightly, and got 
 him up by degrees to the same level as him- 
 self. Then carefully he dropped down on 
 his hands and knees and helped Miles to do 
 the same, 
 
 Slowly they both began to move, and 
 gradually they crawled along the branch 
 that stretched over the water ! Clinging 
 tightly with arms and legs, and listening to 
 Humphrey’s encouraging voice^ little Miles 
 settled himself on the branch in fancied 
 security. 
 
MISVSDERSTOOD. 
 
 211 
 
 Humphrey got close up to him behind, 
 and put his arms round him. “ Hurrah !’ 
 he shouted ; “ here we both are !” 
 
 They had been so engrossed that they 
 had not noticed how the weather had cloud 
 ed over. The bank of clouds they had no. 
 ticed was nearly over their heads, the air 
 was becoming thick and oppressive, far in 
 the distance was heard the growl of ap. 
 proaching thunder, and some big drops of 
 rain fell. 
 
 Humphrey remembered, with a start, his 
 father’s injunctions about Miles, and the ill 
 effects of their last adventure. “We must 
 go home,” he exclaimed ; and, forgetting 
 their perilous position, he moved so sud. 
 denly, that he nearly sent his little brother 
 off the branch. Instinctively he reached 
 out his hand to save him, and Miles nearly 
 overbalanced himself in his attempt to din; 
 to it. 
 
 Their combined movements were b • 
 much for the decaying wood, already ro» k 
 ng beneath their weight. It swayed — v 
 
212 
 
 MIS UN D MSS TO OJt. 
 
 shivered — it creaked .... and then w) 4 a 
 crash it broke from its parent bark!- and 
 boys and branch were precipitated int< the 
 water below. 
 
PART 11 . 
 

 ikr' 
 
 
PART IL 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ■ IR EVERARD BUNCOMBE pursued 
 
 k_^ his way to the stables on leaving the 
 harvest field ; and as he passed the house, 
 he called out to Virginie, who was sitting 
 at work at the nursery window, to go and 
 join the children. 
 
 On arriving in London, he went to his 
 club for his letters, and, meeting a friend on 
 the steps, they walked down Piccadilly to- 
 gether, and turned into the park at Hyde 
 Park Corner. 
 
 They stood by the railings for a Hltle 
 while, watching the stream of carriages 
 and their gaily dressed occupants ; but it 
 
 <»» 5 ) 
 
2i6 
 
 MIS UNDEMSTO OD. 
 
 was very hot, and after a time Sir Everard 
 took leave of his friend, and strolled towards 
 the Serpentine, in search of a little air. 
 
 Miles’s delicacy, ever the subject rising 
 uppermost in his mind, occupied his thoughts 
 as he walked along. He wondered to him- 
 self whether he would outgrow it, whether 
 a winter abroad would set him up, and 
 whether it would not be wise to bring hin, 
 to London, and show him to one of the great 
 chest doctors. 
 
 The sight of the water^ as he approached 
 the Serpentine, recalled to his mind the 
 pond at Wareham, and the expedition which 
 had been the cause of the mischief. He re- 
 membered, with a start, how near he had 
 left the children to the tempting spot, for 
 the pond was almost within sight of the field 
 where they were reaping. 
 
 For a moment he debated whether he had 
 been wise to trust Humphrey again; but 
 then he reflected how soon Virginie must 
 have joined them, and how many people 
 there were about. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD, 
 
 2iy 
 
 Besides, they were quite taken up with 
 the reaping, and when he remembered his 
 own severe words to Humphrey, and the 
 Doy s penitence and remorse, he could 
 hardly fancy he would transgress again. 
 
 Still, he could not get it out of his head, 
 and as he stood watching the water, he 
 wished there were such a thing as the 
 magic glass he had read to the children 
 about; that he might see as far as Ware- 
 ham, and satisfy himself about them. 
 
 Had his wish been gratified at that mo 
 ment, he would have seen Humphrey and 
 Miles astride on the rotten bough, with 
 flushed and exultant faces. 
 
 The same change of weather now took 
 place as was taking place at Wareham. 
 Umbrellas and carriage-hoods were quickly 
 put up, and very soon the park was empty. 
 
 Sir Everard retraced his steps to his club 
 and was closing his umbrella leisurely in the 
 hall, when a telegram was put into his 
 nand. 
 
 He glanced his eye hastily over it, and 
 
 19 
 
218 
 
 MIS VNJ) EBSTOOD. 
 
 then (lashed into the street and hailed a 
 hansom. 
 
 “ Waterloo Station/’ he shouted, as he 
 threw himself into it ; “ double fare if you 
 catch the train !” 
 
 Bustle and confusion, though no doubt, 
 nninteresting and unpoetical, are, certainl}^, 
 at such times useful. They keep the mind 
 from dwelling too much on the painful, and 
 thus rub off the sharp edge of the first mo- 
 ment. 
 
 So it was not till Sir Everard was in the 
 train, and tearing swiftly, though quietly to 
 Wareham, that he realized his position. 
 
 Till then, his thoughts had been entirely 
 taken up with passing this carriage, shaving 
 that omnibus, or rounding that corner. He 
 had chafed at every stoppage, fumed at every 
 delay, and been able to think of nothing but 
 whether or no he should catch the train. 
 
 And now, the strain over, he leant back 
 in the railway carriage and examined the 
 telegram at leisure. 
 
MIS UHDERSTO OE. 
 
 215 
 
 There was not much to be learnt from it ; 
 it was terse and unsatisfactory, like most 
 messages of the kind — just sufficiently clear 
 not to quell all hope, and yet undefined 
 enough to give reins to the imagination. It 
 contained these words : “ An accident hai 
 happened. Both the young gentlemen have 
 fallen into the pond, but neither are drown 
 ed. Come directly.” 
 
 Those who have read and re-read such 
 missives, and vainly endeavored to extract 
 something from them, will best understand 
 how Sir Everard tortured himself during the 
 next quarter of an hour. Might not this 
 be a part of the truth, and the rest con- 
 cealed ? Might it not be meant as a prepa- 
 ration ? 
 
 But, no — unless the message told a deli- 
 berate falsehood, “ neither were drowned.” 
 Why, then, bid him come directly, unless 
 Miles’s condition after his immersion in the 
 water was all but hopeless. “A ducking 
 will not hurt Humphrey,” he reflected • “ so 
 ol course, it is Miles ’ 
 
220 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 He thought of Miles’s fragile appearance 
 as he stood in the corn-field. How little he 
 was fitted to cope with such an accident* 
 Fragile and flushed, with traces of his late 
 illness lingering about his lustrous eyes and 
 colorless lips. 
 
 He worked himself up into a terrible state 
 of anxiety as the train neared Wareham, 
 and restlessly he laid the blame of the acci- 
 dent on everything and everybody. 
 
 What business had they at the pond ? he 
 angrily questioned ; it was the most flagrant 
 act of disobedience on Humphrey’s part he 
 had ever heard of. 
 
 For the moment, he felt as if he could 
 never forgive the boy for such a barefaced 
 breach of his command. Over and over 
 again had Miles’s health, life even, been en- 
 dangered by Humphrey’s heedlessness. 
 
 Heedlessness ! — willfulness he felt inclined 
 to call it. Perhaps he was too indulgent. 
 Stricter measures should be enforced ; the 
 boy must and should learn to obey. He 
 liad been weak, but he would be so no 
 
MliSUNJ)MRSTOOD. 
 
 221 
 
 longer. No punishment could be severe 
 enough for Humphrey ; and punished he 
 should certainly be. 
 
 Then he thought perhaps it was too 
 much to expect of such a young creature 
 and he began to lay the blame on others. 
 Virginie — why was she not there? Why 
 did not she prevent their going to the 
 pond ? 
 
 Even the reapers and the bailiff came in 
 for a share of his anger. Surely, among so 
 many people, somebody might have prevented 
 two children leaving the field ! 
 
 But, after all, Humphrey was the chief 
 offender, and he felt he ought not to try 
 to shield him, by throwing the blame on 
 others. 
 
 There was no carriage waiting for him at 
 the station, and no one could give him any 
 information beyond that contained in the 
 telegram. 
 
 He ordered a fly, and then, unable to 
 bear the delay, walked on without it. He 
 got more and more anxious as he neared the 
 19 * 
 
222 
 
 MiSUNDBMSTOOD. 
 
 Abbey. He took a short cut to the house 
 There was no one about — not a servant, not 
 a gardener. His heart misgave him as he 
 strode on. He reached the hall door, passed 
 in, ran up the stairs to the nursery. Still 
 no sound — no voices. The nurseries were 
 empty ! He called. No answer. He 
 shouted. How horrible his voice sounded 
 in the empty passages ! He rang the bell 
 furiously, and, without waiting the answer, 
 he ran down -stairs again, and opened the 
 library door. 
 
 A confused hum of voices struck upon his 
 ear, a confused group of people swam before 
 his eyes, but he only distinguished a little 
 form that ran forward with outstretched 
 arms; and with an exclamation of fervent 
 thanksgiving he clasped Miles safe, warm, 
 and unhurt in his arms ! 
 
 How eagerly he felt the little pulse and 
 chafed the little hands! He stopped the 
 child’s mouth with kisses whenever he at- 
 tempted to speak. 
 
 He was so occupied with his newly r& 
 
MIS UNDEnSTOOD, 
 
 223 
 
 covered treasure, that he did not notice 
 what a deep silence had fallen on the assem- 
 bled group on his entrance ; but now he 
 turned to one of the maids, and asked how 
 the accident had happened. And, by the 
 way,’' he added, ‘‘where is Master Hum- 
 phrey?” 
 
 No one answered. 
 
 “ Where is Master Humphrey?” repeated 
 the baronet. 
 
 ‘‘They told me not to say,” began little 
 Miles; but his father was looking directly 
 at one of the gardeners, and the man was 
 obliged to answer. 
 
 “ If you please. Sir Everard, we carried 
 Master Buncombe in there,” pointing to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 “ In there r said the baronet, amazed. 
 
 “ If you please. Sir Everard, it was the 
 first room we came to ; and the only one 
 where there was a sofa.” 
 
 Before he had done speaking, Sir Everard 
 was in the room. A shutter had been open- 
 ed, and there was just light enough for him 
 
224 
 
 MjSUN DERSTOOD. 
 
 to see Virginie bending over the sofa, round 
 which was a group of people. 
 
 The doctor came forward from among 
 them, but Sir Everard pushed past him, and 
 advanced to the side of the sofa. 
 
 And there, under his mother’s picture, 
 colorless, motionless, and to all appearance 
 lifeless, lay the boy for whom “ no punish- 
 ment could be severe enough,” and whose 
 disobedience he had felt he never could 
 forgive ! 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 () one was t o blame. The reapers had 
 
 run to the pond on hearing the chil- 
 dren’s cries, and had extricated them imme- 
 diately ; Virginie had sent for the doctor at 
 once. So no one had failed in their duty ; 
 or had, as I say, been to blame — except the 
 poor little victim himself. 
 
 “At present,” the doctor informed Sir 
 Everard, “ the extent of the injuries could 
 not be determined.” 
 
 Miles, from having been jerked off the 
 end of the branch straight into the water, 
 had escaped with a wetting ; but Humphrey, 
 from having been nearer the tree, had come 
 in contact with the trunk, and the bough 
 under the w ater, and the doctor feared both 
 spine and head had been injured. He asked 
 
 (125) 
 
226 MISUNJySRSTOOD. 
 
 for further advice, and a man was dispatched 
 with a telegram for two of the greatest sur- 
 geons of the day. 
 
 The calamity was so sudden, so awful, so 
 unexpected ! Sir Everard could not realize 
 it — kept on misunderstanding the doctor’s 
 incoherence — the poor old doctor who had 
 known him all his life, and could not bear 
 to be the one to tell him that, even if his 
 boy’s life were spared, he must ever be a 
 helpless cripple. 
 
 Humphrey a cripple ! Humphrey to lie 
 on his back all his life ! Sir Everard could 
 not grasp the idea, could not collect his 
 thoughts to conceive anything so impossi- 
 ble, could not follow the doctor through the 
 circumlocution in which he tried to clothe 
 the announcement, and at last lolst patience. 
 
 “ For God’s sake, tell me what you mean ' 
 Can you be trying to break to me that my 
 boy — that child who has never to my knowl- 
 edge sat still in his life — will never have the 
 use of his limbs any more? Speak out, 1 
 implore you !” 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 227 
 
 " Never any more, Sir Everard ! — never 
 %ny more/’ 
 
 Still he could not realize it, could not take 
 t in. 
 
 He turned away, and went out into the 
 air, to clear, as it were, the mistiness of his 
 brain, and to bring himself face to face with 
 the words, so as to force himself to under- 
 stand them. “ Never have the use of his 
 limbs any more !” Simple English words — 
 he knew he must really understand them, 
 and yet they seemed to him mere sounds, 
 devoid of any signification. 
 
 He repeated them over and over again, 
 to see what he could make of them. “ Never 
 have the use of his limbs anj?^ more.” That 
 meant — let him think it out clearly — it 
 meant, that his boy, his restless, impetuous 
 boy, would be chained to a sofa all his life, 
 for ever cut off from all that glorified his 
 young existence — that was what it meant. 
 It meant — for now that thought was begin- 
 ning to assert herself, each word that was 
 
228 
 
 MISVNDEHSTOOD. 
 
 meaningless before, was becoming alive with 
 signification — it meant that all that had been 
 should be again no more — that all that the 
 child called life was over — that all that went 
 to make up the sum of his existence was 
 gone — that death in life must be his portion 
 for ever and for ever ! 
 
 For what did the word life mean to Hum- 
 phrey ? Why, the powers of which he was 
 to be deprived were the very germs of his 
 whole existence — the things for which he 
 was, and moved, and had his being. Take 
 them away, and what remained ? Life be- 
 reft of these, what was it to him ? What is 
 a husk from which the kernel has been 
 taken, or a casket from which the jewel is 
 gone? 
 
 Sir Everard was not a worldly man, and 
 in those moments he did not dwell on the 
 blighted youth, and blasted manhood ; he 
 did not think of the earthly career for ever 
 clouded, the hopes of earthly distinction for 
 ever shut out. He did not see that his boy 
 was debarred from every path of usefulness 
 
MIS JJND ERST OOD. 
 
 22g 
 
 or honor which man delights to tread — alike 
 shut out from active service, and learned 
 profession. Results painful enough in them 
 selves ; but it is none of them that have 
 Drought that despairing expression to his set, 
 white face. No ! 
 
 He is thinking of the active little figure, 
 chained to an invalid’s chair. He is trying 
 to realize that the lawns and gardens will 
 know his joyous presence no more. Sur- 
 rounded by the haunts of the young life, he 
 is forcing himself to believe that all hence- 
 forth shall be lone and silent, that never 
 again shall they echo to his light footstep, or 
 ring with his merry laugh ; that the active 
 limbs shall be motionless, and the busy hands 
 for ever still. And only one word rose to 
 his lips, “ Impossible ! ” 
 
 At moments like these, how our feelings 
 ore reflected on all things around. Never 
 Defore had Sir E\erard so keenly realized 
 the endless motion of nature. 
 
 With the probable fate of his boy lying 
 Defore him, he was perhaps exaggerating the 
 20 
 
23D 
 
 MlSVNDEItSTOOD. 
 
 Dlessing of movement; but certainly he had 
 never before so forcibly noticed how every 
 little leaf on the trees fluttered as the breeze 
 passed over it, how every little blade of 
 grass shook and danced in the wind, how 
 the boughs swayed and the blossoms nodded, 
 how the waters of the streamlet rippled and 
 leapt on their way ! 
 
 And this with what is called inanimate 
 nature ; and when it came to t^ e birds, and 
 the beasts, and the insects ! 
 
 It was cruel of two lambs to come and 
 gambol together at that moment, just under 
 the poor father’s eyes ; cruel of a little rabbit 
 to choose that second, out of all the hours 
 of a long summer day, to pop up from under 
 the brushwood, and scamper away across 
 the green grass! When had the air ever 
 been so full of butterflies, horseflies, and bee- 
 tles ; for ever and ever on the wing 1 The 
 bees hurried from flower to flower, the birds 
 chased each other from tree to tree, the 
 Bummer gnats never rested tor a moment ; — 
 and Humphrey, of all Nature’s children the 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD 
 
 33 ‘ 
 
 happiest and the brightest, was to be the 
 one who should sport in the sunshine no 
 more! 
 
 He thought of the boy’s restless activity 
 his joy in motion and exercise. From dawn 
 to sunset, never still, never weary of rushing 
 about in the open air. There had always 
 been with him a sort of lavish enjoyment of 
 existence for its own sake, as if there were 
 happiness in the mere sense of being and 
 moving. 
 
 Even as a little baby it had always been 
 the same. When he could scarcely stand 
 alone, he would struggle to get out of his 
 nurse’s arms, and start off by himself, heed- 
 less of the many falls he would get on the 
 way. And as memory brought back the 
 early days of the child’s life, came mingled 
 with them the thought of the mother who 
 had so delighted in him. And as Sir Ever- 
 ard remembered how she had gloried in his 
 manly spirit, and in his energy and activity 
 he bowed his head, and thanked God tha( 
 she had not lived to see this day. 
 
232 
 
 MI8UNDMBST00V. 
 
 Once more he saw her restraining her 
 maternal fears that she might not interfere 
 with her boy’s love of enterprise, or bring a 
 shadow on his happiness. Once more he 
 seemed to hear the baby voice at the bed- 
 room door, before the shutters were opened. 
 “ Mother, mother, may I go out ?” 
 
 The breathless pause till the answer came • 
 “ Out now ! My darling, it is so early and 
 so cold. Better wait a little !” 
 
 “ The insides of houses are so hot, mother ; 
 
 please say 1 may go out !” 
 
 Had the boy ever walked ? Had he ever 
 done anything but run? 
 
 Sir Everard could not recall one instance 
 of meeting him out of doors, except running 
 and rushing headlong, jumping over every- 
 thing which obstructed his path. 
 
 Once again, there rose the thought of the 
 motionless little figure sitting pale and silent 
 in a cripple’s chair. God help the poor 
 father! In the bitterness of his spirit he 
 had almost said, “ Sooner than clip his 
 wings, let him soar away.” 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 233 
 
 He retraced his steps, and on entering the 
 hall, was informed by the trembling Virginie 
 that Humphrey had recovered conscious- 
 less, and had spoken. 
 
 He hurried to the drawing-room, but the 
 ioctor met him at the door, and motioned 
 him back. 
 
 “ Do not go in just yet,” he said, closing 
 the door behind him ; “ he seems to fear 
 your displeasure about something, and 
 shows great excitement at the thought of 
 seeing you. I dare say,” he added, quickly, 
 for he was touched by the expression of 
 pain which passed over the poor father’s 
 face, “ I dare say he will get over it, when 
 he is a little less confused.” 
 
 “ Does he understand what has hap- 
 pened ?” 
 
 “ I think so, now. At first he was sadly 
 confused at finding himself in the draw'ing- 
 room ; but by degrees he remembered the 
 events of the day. The moment he grasped 
 the idea of the accident, he became excited, 
 and asked repeatedly for his little brother 
 
234 
 
 MIS VNi) EB8T0 0D. 
 
 I should fancy this anxiety was associated 
 with his shrinking from seeing you. Per 
 haps you understand better than I do?” 
 
 “ I have been obliged several times lately 
 to find fault with him for leading his little 
 brother into mischief, and this last unfortu- 
 nate escapade I had most especially forbid- 
 den. Miles is, as you know, so very deli- 
 cate that I am obliged to be very careful 
 of him.” 
 
 This was said almost in an exculpatory tone. 
 
 “ He IS certainly very delicate,” answered 
 the doctor, “ and ought not to be exposed 
 to such dangers. I am very thankful he 
 has escaped so easily. Now my little pa- 
 tient’s constitution is altogether different; 
 seldom have I seen a finer or stronger. 
 However,” he added, breaking off with a 
 sigh, “the most iron frame is not pi oof 
 against such an accident as this. I think, 
 Sir Everard,” he concluded, “that what 
 you tell me would quite account for the ex. 
 citement. May I tell him from you that 
 ce has no cause to fear your anger ?” 
 
MIS UNDMRSTO OR. 
 
 235 
 
 “Need you ask?” said the baronet, impa- 
 tiently, and the doctor returned to the sick 
 room. 
 
 Sir Everard paced up and down till the 
 door re-opened, and the doctor made him a 
 sign to come in. 
 
 He entered, and advanced to the side of 
 :he sofa. The room was so dark that he 
 could only see the outline of the curly head, 
 lying back among the pillows, but a little 
 hand came out, and pulled him down. 
 
 “Father,” in a voice which was hardly 
 above a whisper, “it’s all right. He isn’t 
 hurt a bit — not even a cold. I am so glad 
 it is me that is hurt instead of him.” 
 
 “ Oh, hush ! hush ! my darling.” 
 
 “ You’re not angry with me, father ? I’m 
 so sorry I climbed. I’ll never do it again 
 Say you’re not angry, father.” 
 
 “ No, no my poor child — I’m not angry 
 only so sorry to see you ill.” 
 
 “ Am I very ill ? What is the matter with 
 my head? Shall I soon be well again?” 
 
 “ I hope so, darling There are some 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 236 
 
 gentlemen coming to-morrow, to help yo» 
 to get well very quick.” 
 
 “ I shall be well by the Harvest Home 
 shan’t I?” 
 
 “ The Harvest Home ? When is that ?” 
 
 “ You promised to fix a day early next 
 week, you know, father. Which day shall 
 it be?” 
 
 “ I — 1 don’t — quite know what da}'^ to fix, 
 ray boy.” 
 
 “ The corn fell so fast, all day, father — it 
 must be ready soon. Shall we say Tues- 
 day?” 
 
 No answer : only an inarticulate murmur. 
 
 “ Then that’s settled. Shall I be well 
 enough on Tuesday to dance ‘ Up the mid- 
 dle and down again,’ with Dolly?” 
 
 Rises again, all unbidden, before the 
 father’s eyes, a motionless little figure, sit- 
 ting in a cripple’s chair. Dance ! Ought 
 he to tell him? ought he to prepare him’ 
 who was to do it, if not he ? who else was 
 to tell him of the blight that had fallen . a 
 his young life ? 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 237 
 
 “ You don’t tell me, father. Shall I be 
 « ell soon ?” 
 
 He could not tell him. He only kissed 
 Jhe little hand, and murmured, “ God grant 
 you may, my child !” 
 
 “ 1 shan’t be able to lie still very long. 
 If it wasn’t that I feel so tired, I should like 
 to jump up now.” 
 
 “ Are you very tired, Humphrey ?” 
 
 “Yes,” with a sigh, “and my back aches, 
 and so does my head, and feels so funny 
 It makes my eyes swim, and that makes me 
 so sleepy.” 
 
 “ Will you try to go to sleep ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” murmured the child, and his heavy 
 eyes closed ; “ I shall wake up quite well to- 
 morrow.” 
 
 “A good sign,” whispered Sir Everard to 
 the doctor. The doctor did not answer ; 
 and Sir Everard went up to the nursery, to 
 see Miles. The little fellow was gazing out 
 of the window, humming a forlorn little 
 tune to himself. Jane, with red eyes, was 
 sitting at work. 
 
MISUNDEUSTOOJ). 
 
 238 
 
 Sir Everard took the child up in his arms 
 “ What are you doing, my little man ?’“ 
 
 “ I’m so dull without Humphie. When 
 will he come and play ?” 
 
 “ Soon, I hope, darling.” 
 
 Is Humphie going to sleep all night in 
 the drawing-room ?” 
 
 “ Yes — isn’t that funny ?” 
 
 “ May I go and say good-night to him ?” 
 
 “ No ; you can’t go to him to-night.” 
 
 Miles’s eyes filled with tears. I can’t go 
 to sleep without saying good-night to Hum- 
 phie.” 
 
 “ Ah ! don’t cry, my child,” said the poor 
 father, beseechingly. His feelings had been 
 on the strain so many hours; he felt he 
 could not stand any more, and he dare 1 not 
 let his thoughts dwell on the subject. He 
 tried to turn the conversation. “Tell me,” 
 he said, with a forced smile, “wha( was 
 that little song you were singing to yoi rself 
 when I came in ?” 
 
 “It was about Humpty-Dumpty,’ said 
 Mnes, mournfully. 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 239 
 
 “ Let me see : Humpty-Dumpty, was an 
 egg, wasn’t he ?” 
 
 “ That gentleman said it was H umphie 
 who was Humpty-Dumpty. Is that true, 
 Fardie ?” 
 
 “No, darling; how could Humphrey be 
 an egg ?’’ 
 
 “ One part’s true, though,’’ said Miles , 
 “ ‘ Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall.’ ’’ 
 
 “ Ah ! that’s true !’’ sighed Sir Everard. 
 
 “ What’s the end, Fardie ? I want to re- 
 member it, and I can’t — do you ?’’ 
 
 Why did Sir Everard put the child down 
 so suddenly, and why should his voice falter 
 a little, as he repeated the baby couplet ? 
 They were only nursery rhymes, and this is 
 how they ended : 
 
 “All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, 
 
 Will never set Humpty-Dumpty up again.” 
 
 “ It’s’diculous nonsense, Fardie, oi course?' 
 
 “ A ridiculous nonsensica^rhyme, darling !” 
 
 But ah ! how nearly the sublime and the 
 ridiculous touch sometimes in this world ! 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 H umphrey passed the night part.5 
 in heavy sleep and partly in feverish 
 restlessness. 
 
 His first inquiry in the morning was for 
 Miles, and the next for the gentlemen who 
 were to help him to get well so quick. 
 
 The latter he was told could not arrive 
 till eleven o’clock, but Sir Everard went to 
 fetch little Miles, and whispering to him not 
 to talk much or to stay long, he put the 
 child down and stayed by the door to 
 watch the meeting between the two little 
 brothers. 
 
 Miles advanced rather timidly, the room 
 was so dark and everything looked so 
 strange. But as soon as he distinguished 
 hi.s brother he ran forward. 
 
 ^240) 
 
UISUNDEBSTOOD. 
 
 241 
 
 “ Humphie ! get up, get up. Why do you 
 'ie there, and look so white ?” 
 
 “ I’m ill. Miles !” — ^in a tone half piaintive, 
 half triumphant. 
 
 ^'Musn't be ill, Humphie — oh, don’t be 
 ill !” 
 
 “ You're often ill. Miles ; why shouldn’t I 
 be ill sometimes ?” 
 
 “ Don’t like it,” said the child, his eyes 
 filling with tears. “ Oh, Humphie, I wish 
 we hadn’t tummelled into the pond !” 
 
 At this moment Sir Everard was called 
 away, and informed that the physicians had 
 arrived from London. 
 
 He found them in the dining-room, talk- 
 ing over the case with the village doctor 
 and, after ordering them some breakfast, he 
 returned to prepare the little invalid for 
 their arrival. 
 
 As he approached the room he was 
 alarmed to hear Humphrey’s voice raised,, 
 and still more, when little Miles, with a face 
 of terror came running out. 
 
 Oh, Fardie, Fardie ! will you come to 
 
 21 
 
MISUNDEnSTOOD 
 
 24:^ 
 
 Humphie? He’s crying so, and he wants 
 you to come directly !” 
 
 “ Crying so ! What is the matter wdth 
 him ?” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know ? He began to cry 
 and scream so when I said it !” 
 
 “ Said what — said what ?” 
 
 “ Oh, Fardie, I was telling him that I 
 heard Virginie tell some one he would be 
 ‘boiteux’ all his life, and I only asked him 
 what it meant I” 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Vainly all night long had Sir Everard 
 tried to frame a sentence in which to con- 
 vey the fatal news. 
 
 Phrase after phrase had he rejected, be- 
 cause nothing seemed to him to express 
 half the love and tenderness in which so 
 terrible an announcement should be clothed. 
 Words were so hard, so cold ! They were 
 so weak to express what he wanted — so 
 utterly inadequate to contain all the pity, all 
 the yearning sympathy with which his heaii 
 was overflowing ! 
 
MISUNDEhSTOOJ). 
 
 243 
 
 And now without any preparation, with- 
 out any softening, the cruel blow had fallen ! 
 
 For one moment the father’s heart failed 
 him, and he felt he could not face the boy, 
 could not meet his questioning gaze, could 
 not with his own lips confirm the fatal 
 truth. But there was no time for reflection. 
 Humphrey’s feeble voice calling him to come 
 quickly, caught his ear, and as in a dream 
 he advanced, and stood by the bedside. 
 
 “ Father !” exclaimed the child (and how 
 shall we express the tones of his voice, or 
 convey an idea of the pitiful entreaty and 
 nameless horror with which they rang ?) " it 
 isn’t true — is it ? Oh, say it isn’t true !” 
 
 All the words of consolation and soothing 
 died upon the father’s lips, and his tongue 
 seemed tied. 
 
 “ She’s always saying unkind things,” 
 sobbed the child, clinging to him ; “ she 
 oughtn’t to — ought she ? Yoa don’t answer 
 me, father ! Father, \vhy don’t j^ou tell me ? 
 Why don’t you say quick, it’s not true?” 
 And as his fear grew, his voice faltered, and 
 
244 
 
 MISUNDBRSTOOD. 
 
 his grasp on his father tightened. “Answe/ 
 me — father — why — don’t you — speak ?” 
 
 “ My poor child, my poor little fellow !* 
 One more struggle for the truth, in spite of 
 the failing voice, and the sense of deadly 
 sickness. 
 
 “ Lift up your face, father. Let — me — 
 see — ^your — ^face !” 
 
 What was there in the face that struck 
 terror to his heart, and brought conviction 
 thumping up in great throbs, even before 
 the faltering words came. 
 
 “Supposing it should be true — what 
 then !’’ 
 
 Ah ! what then ? His dizzy brain refused 
 to attach any meaning to the words, or to 
 help him to understand how much was con- 
 tained in them. 
 
 The loud beating of his heart echoed 
 them, his parched lips strove to repeat them, 
 and wildl y he fought with his failing senses, 
 straining every nerve to find an answer to 
 the question. In vain ! Every pulse in his 
 throbbing head seemed to take up the w ords 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 245 
 
 and beat them into his brain ; the air was 
 Alive with voices around him, and voices 
 and pulses alike cried, “ What then ? — what 
 then ?” But the question went unanswered, 
 for Humphrey fainted away. 
 
 Sir Everard hastily summoned the doc« 
 tors, and they did all they could to restore 
 him. 
 
 In a little while he showed signs of com- 
 ing to himself, and to prevent his thoughts 
 returning to the subject which had agitated 
 him, they requested Sir Everard to remain 
 out of sight, and stationed themselves close 
 to the bedside, so that theirs should be the 
 first figures that should attract his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 As Humphrey slowly recovered con- 
 sciousness, he did not indeed clearly remem- 
 ber on what his thoughts had been dwelling, 
 but that there was something in his mind 
 from which he shrank, he was quite aware. 
 
 Waking in the morning to a sense of some 
 sorrow which possessed us ere we slept, we 
 
M:S UNDEB8 TO 01). 
 
 246 
 
 intuitively feel there is something amiss, 
 though we are too confused to remember 
 what it is ; and even while we wish to recall 
 it, we dread to turn our thoughts that way, 
 lest we should lose the temporary peace into 
 which forgetfulness has plunged us. 
 
 In such a passive state would Humphrey 
 have remained, had not the doctors, to dis- 
 tract his thoughts, touched his brow, and 
 caused him to open his eyes. 
 
 Alas! they little knew the all-powerful 
 association of the place where he lay. 
 
 He closed his eyes again directly, and 
 took no notice of the doctors’ attempts to 
 lead him into conversation; but in that one 
 moment, his glance had rested on his moth- 
 er’s picture, and at once his mind wander- 
 ed back — not indeed to the memory they 
 dreaded, but to one which was scarcely less 
 painful. 
 
 We will follow his thoughts for a moment. 
 
 He is alone ; all alone in the desolate 
 apartment, in the closed uninhabited room ! 
 The twilight is creeping slowly on, and the 
 
MIS UNDER STO OD. 
 
 247 
 
 silence and emptiness within and without 
 him, tan almost be felt. Up-stairs in the 
 nursery, Miles is dying — perhaps already 
 dead. No one will help him, or be sorry 
 for him. And as the sense of neglect and 
 isolation steals over him once more, his 
 breast heaves, and his lips move : 
 
 “ Mother, I want you back so much 
 every one is angry with me and I am so 
 very miserable !” 
 
 No answer, no sound. 
 
 “ Mother ! put your arms round me ! put 
 my head on your shoulder !” 
 
 Not a word. 
 
 It is only a picture after all. 
 
 • • • • > 
 
 Never to play with Miles any more ! No 
 more games on the stairs, or in the passages ! 
 No, never more ! For Miles is dying, per- 
 haps already dead. How happy the baby 
 in the picture looks! Can it really be 
 him? Oh, happy baby, always close to 
 mother! always with her arms round 
 oim, and her shoulder against his head. 
 
MTSUMDEIiSTOCJ). 
 
 248 
 
 Oh, if he could climb up into the baby’s 
 place, and stay there for ever and ever! 
 How could he get up to her? She is in 
 Heaven. She got there by being ill and 
 dying. Why should die not get ill, and die 
 too. Miles is dying, mother is dead— he 
 would so like to die too. But it’s no use. 
 He never is ill — not even a cold. Miles 
 caught cold going to the pond — the pond 
 where the water-lilies are. How quiet it 
 was! how cool! How gently they dance 
 upon the water, those lovely water-lilies 
 How the bird sang, and the rat splashed . . 
 Come up, Miles — it’s as safe as safe can 
 be ! . . . Stop ! . . . Miles is dying — how could 
 he come up ? Miles came into the room, and 
 talked about the — jackdaw . . . wasn’t it? — 
 the poor lame jackdaw . . . Miles is dying. . . . 
 How did he come in ? . . . Hop ! hop ! comes 
 the jackdaw, poor old fellow ! But what 
 did Miles say about the jackdaw ? Boiteux ! 
 But that's not his name ; we always call him 
 Jack. Boiteux means . . . The jackdaw 
 again ! Hop, hop, he comes , . . He wih 
 
MISXTNBEBSTOOI). 
 
 249 
 
 never fly again — never ! Poor old jackdaw ’ 
 ... Is it ready true that he will never fly 
 again? It is not true. But supposing it 
 should be true, what then ? . . . Boiteux ! . . . 
 Who is it keeps on asking me what ‘ boiteux’ 
 means ? . . . Boiteux ! “ What then ?” Boi- 
 teux means jackdaw — no, it means lame — no 
 it means crip 
 
 The temporary oblivion is over, the un- 
 known dread is taking a tangible shape, and 
 recollection rushes over him, bringing con- 
 viction with it. 
 
 But Hope, ever the last gift in the casket, 
 faintly holds out against certainty. 
 
 “ No ! no b— not that ! it cant be that !” 
 
 But something beating in his heart, beats 
 Hope down. Mighty throbs, like the strokes 
 of a hammer, beat it down, down, crush it to 
 nothing ; and a terrible sinking comes in its 
 place. It is true — and in an instant he re- 
 alizes what It being true will entail. 
 
 As lightning, flashing upon the path of 
 the benighted traveller, reveals to him for a 
 moment the country lying before him, i]lu- 
 
250 
 
 MTS UN DER8T0 OV. 
 
 mining all its minutest details ; so thought, 
 flashing upon the future of the child, show- 
 ed him for a moment all too vividly the 
 life of crippled helplessness stretching ou 
 before him — the daily, hourly cross, which 
 must be his for ever ! 
 
 Let each one try to conceive for himself 
 the intensity of such a moment, to such a 
 nature ! 
 
 Let each one try to realise the thoughts 
 which followed each other in hot haste 
 through his brain, the confused phantasma- 
 goria which swam before him, fading away 
 at last, and leaving only two distinct pic- 
 tures— the jackdaw hopping about in his 
 cage, and little lame Tom in the village, sit 
 ting in his cripple’s chair. 
 
 He shrinks back in horror, his soul rises 
 in loathing: he pants, and wildly throws 
 himself about, with a half-smothered cry. 
 
 “ Oh, gently, my darling ! you will hurt 
 yourself.” 
 
 It is his father’s voice, and he turns to him 
 fcnd clings tightly. 
 
MinUNBER ST 
 
 251 
 
 I don't care — I don't care, I want to 
 hart myself. I want to die. I don't want 
 to live like that !*' At the sight of the phy- 
 sicians, his excitement redoubled, and he 
 clung more tightly to his father. No ! No ! 
 Send them away ! They shan't look at me, 
 the}^ shan't touch me. They are going to 
 try and make me well, and I don't want to 
 get well. I wont get well !" 
 
 The doctors retired, as their presence 
 excited him so much, and Sir Everard tried 
 to loosen the boy's convulsive grasp round 
 his neck. 
 
 Humphrey was too exhausted to retain 
 the position long : his hands relaxed their 
 hold, and Sir Everard laid him back on the 
 pillow. 
 
 Once more the soft face in the picture 
 exercises its old influence over him, and 
 charms away, as of old, the fit of passionate 
 n^.bellion. 
 
 Father," he entreated, in a whisper, let 
 me die ! Promise not to let them try and 
 make me well again." 
 
252 
 
 MIS UND ERST OOD, 
 
 Bstween surprise and emotion Sii Ever 
 ard could not answer. He thought the idea 
 of death would be both strange and repug- 
 nant to so thoughtless a creature ; and he 
 marvelled to hear him speak of it. 
 
 ‘‘ You'll promise, won't you, father? You 
 know I couldjit live like that ! Let me go 
 and live with mother in Heaven. See," 
 pointing to the picture, how happy I was 
 in her arms when T was a baby, and I w’ant 
 to lie there again so much ! Just now, when 
 I thought it was still the night Miles was ill, 
 before I knew I should never walk or run 
 any more, even then I wanted so to get ill 
 and die, that I might go to her, and I want 
 it more than ever now. I thought then I 
 never could get ill, because I am so strong ; 
 but now I am ill, and so you'll let me die ! 
 Promise not to try and make me well?' 
 
 Three times Sir Everard strove to answer, 
 and three times his voice failed him. He 
 managed, however, to murmur something 
 which sounded like an affirmative, which 
 satisfied and quieted the child. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 253 
 
 But much of the boy’s speech had been 
 wholly inintelligible to him, and his allu- 
 sions to his mother’s picture especially 
 puzzled him. Looking upon the drawing- 
 room as a closed room, he had no idea that 
 the children ever penetrated into it, or that 
 they knew of the existence of the picture. 
 And laying his hand on the child’s head, he 
 said : “ How did you know that was your 
 mother, Humphrey?” 
 
 The boy shot at him a glance of such 
 astonishment that Sir Everard felt rebuked, 
 and did not like to continue the conversa- 
 tion ; and the doctors, returning at that mo- 
 ment, it was not resumed. 
 
 This time, Humphrey made no resistance, 
 and the physicians were able to make their 
 examination. 
 
 Leaving the village doctor by the bedside, 
 Sir Everard led the way to the library, to 
 hear their opinion. 
 
 He hardly knew what he wished. Hum 
 phre}* s horror at his impending fate had 
 made such an impression on Sir Everard 
 22 
 
 
254 
 
 MISUNDEMSTOOD. 
 
 that he almost shrank from hearing the child 
 would recover to such a life as that. And 
 yet when the doctors told him his boy must 
 die, a revulsion of feeling swept over him, 
 and his rebellious heart cried, “Anything 
 but that !” 
 
 “ Would it be soon ?” he tried to ask. 
 
 “ It could not be far off,” they said. 
 
 “Would the child suffer?” 
 
 “They hoped not — they believed not;’ 
 and they wrung his hand and departed. 
 
 He followed them to the hall door, and 
 waited with them till their carriage came 
 up. 
 
 It was a still summer’s morning when they 
 came out upon the steps, as if all nature 
 were silently and breathlessly awaiting the 
 verdict. But as the doctors got into their 
 carriage, a light breeze sprang up, causing 
 the trees to sway and rustle with a mourn- 
 ful sound, as if they knew the sentence, and 
 were conveying it to the fields around. Sir 
 Everard stood watching them as they drove 
 away — those great court physicians, whO| 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 255 
 
 ith all their fame and all their learning 
 could do nothing for his boy — nothing! 
 
 He listened to the sighing of the wind, 
 and watched the trees bowing mournfully 
 before it ; and he wondered vaguely what 
 was the language of the winds and breezes, 
 and in what words nature was learning his 
 boy’s fate. It seemed to him that the 
 breezes pursued the retreating doctors, and 
 flung clouds of dust around them, as if 
 taunting them with their inability to help ; 
 and then, returning once more to the oaks 
 and beeches, resumed their melancholy wail. 
 Dreamily there recurred to his mind that 
 ancient fable the children loved to hear : 
 that story of the olden time which tells how 
 the wind wafted through the trees to the 
 passers-by, the secret which had been 
 whispered into the bosom of the earth : 
 
 ** List ! Mother Earth ; while no man hears, 
 
 King Midas has got asses’ ears.” 
 
 And, as he cast one more look at the 
 carriage in the distance, before re entering 
 
Misumdmrstoqd. 
 
 25 ^ 
 
 the house, the messages of the breezes 
 seemed to come into his head in the form 
 of the baby rhymes he had so often heard 
 the children sing . 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 B efore returning to the sick-room, 
 Sir Everard sat down to write some 
 letters. 
 
 He tried to think of some one he could 
 send for, to help him in his trouble. His 
 mother was too infirm to leave home, his 
 sister perfectly useless, and they were the 
 only relations he had. 
 
 His brother-in-law was the person who 
 would have been the greatest comfort to 
 him, but he had just been appointed to a 
 ship, and Sir Everard knew him to be up to 
 his neck in preparations, perpetually veering 
 between London and Portsmouth. As, how- 
 ever, he must pass Wareham Station on his 
 journeys to and fro. Sir Everard wrote to 
 beg him if possible, to stop for one night on 
 his way. 
 
 22 ^ 
 
 : V 
 
 (^ 57 ) 
 
MIS UMVI1£ST00D. 
 
 258 
 
 Then he went up to the nursery. Miles 
 was having his mid-day sleep; and Jane, 
 the housemaid, was sitting by his crib. Sir 
 Everard bent down to kiss the little fedow, 
 who was lying with his face hidden, hugging 
 to his breast some ears of dead corn ; but as 
 his father’s lips touched his forehead, he 
 stirred in his sleep, and said, “ Humphie.” 
 
 “ What has he got there?” asked Sir Ev- 
 erard of Jane. 
 
 “ Some ears of corn, I think. Sir Everard,’ 
 answered Jane; “it’s some that belonged 
 to Master Humphrey, and he says no one 
 shan’t touch it but himself. I heard him say 
 he had found it in a corner of the nursery, 
 and that Master Humphrey must have put 
 it there, and forgotten it, for that he had 
 meant to plant it in his garden.” 
 
 Sir Everard did not answer : he stooped 
 over the little sleeper, and kissed him again 
 tenderly. “ Whatever you do, don’t wake 
 him,” he whispered ; “ let him sleep as long 
 as ever he can.” 
 
 He left the room; and as he went do vn- 
 
MISTXNDEnSTOOD. 
 
 259 
 
 stairs the children’s conversation in the 
 cornfield lhat Sunday afternoon recurred to 
 him, and he could not help making a mental 
 comparison between the young corn and 
 the young life, both so suddenly uprooted 
 from the earth. 
 
 Meeting the doctor in the hall, he briefly 
 communicated the physicians’ opinion, and 
 begged him to make it known to the house- 
 hold. To announce it himself, he felt to be 
 impossible. 
 
 He found the worn-out child in a heavy 
 sleep when he reached the drawing-room ; 
 there was nothing to draw his thoughts 
 from the subject upon which they had been 
 dwelling, and he found himself going over 
 and over the scene in the corn-field. He 
 seemed to see and hear it all with startling 
 distinctness. Wherever he looked, he saw 
 Humphrey sitting on the top of the gate 
 with the ears of corn in his destroying hand 
 and Miles looking sorrowfully up at him. 
 
 He could not bear it at last, and walked 
 up and down the room, to get it out of his 
 
26 o misundemstood. 
 
 head. B it even then their voices rang in 
 his ears, and filled him with pain. 
 
 “ Never mind, Miles,” sounded ni clear 
 bell-like tones the voice which would never 
 rise above a whisper again. “ I will plant 
 them in the sunny bit of our own garden, 
 where the soil is much better than here, 
 and where they will grow much finer than 
 if they had been left to ripen with the rest. 
 Perhaps they will thank me some day for 
 having pulled them out of the rough field, 
 and planted them in such a much more 
 beautiful place.” 
 
 But he might have found comfort instead 
 of pain in the words, had he followed out 
 the metaphor which had been floating in his 
 head. For would net the child one day « 
 thank Death, the destroyer ; who in uproot- 
 ing him fresh and green from the earth, 
 would transplant him to the rich soil of 
 God’s own garden ; where, in the sunshine 
 of His Maker’s presence, he should ripen 
 into that perfection, which is unknown 
 among the children of men ? 
 
UISVNDERSTOjD. 
 
 261 
 
 For natures like Humphreys are not fit 
 for this rough world. Such a capacity for 
 sorrow has no rest here, and such a capabil- 
 ity for enjoyment is fittest to find its happi 
 ness in those all-perfect pleasures which are 
 at God’s right hand for evermore. 
 
 Humphrey was .seldom conscious during 
 the days that followed. He was either in 
 heavy sleep, or incoherent rambling. 
 
 He would lie talking to his mother’s pic- 
 ture in a whisper; going over games and 
 conversations with Miles ; or wandering on 
 unintelligibly to himself. 
 
 Whenever he was aware of his father’s 
 presence, he would complain of a curious 
 noise in his head, and ask what the rushing 
 and singing in his ears meant ; but before he 
 got an answer, he would ramble off again, 
 and take no notice of what was passing 
 around him. 
 
 Sir Everard, sitting for hours by his bed- 
 side, often thought of the boy’s allusions to 
 his mother’s picture, and of the look with 
 
262 MI8in^DE.^ST00D. 
 
 which Humphrey had greeted his inquiry 
 as to how he had known it was she. 
 
 Many words that at times dropped from 
 the child, puzzled him, and he often longed 
 to question him on the subject. 
 
 Seeing one night a gleam of consciousness 
 in the dark eyes, he went closer to the sofa, 
 and tried to attract the boy’s attention. 
 
 “ What are you thinking about, Hum- 
 phrey ?” 
 
 “ Mother,” he answered, in a faint voice ; 
 “ when is she coming to fetch me ?” 
 
 But before there was time for an answer, 
 he was overcome by his usual drowsiness, 
 and Sir Everard’s opportunity was gone. 
 But perhaps what bewildered him most was 
 the way in which the child had prayed to 
 be allowed to die. 
 
 To Sir Everard, with his one-sided view 
 of the boy, it was all such an enigma. 
 
 Here was a child who had always seemed 
 6C» entirely taken up with the pleasures of 
 the passing moment, that his past and future 
 were alike merged in the enjoyment Df the 
 
MIS UNDEBSTOOJ). 
 
 263 
 
 present — a creature on whom sorrow and 
 loss had produced no permanent impression 
 passing over him, as it were, only to leave 
 him more gay, more heedless than ever. 
 Permanent impression ! why, as far as Sir 
 Everard knew, they had produced no im- 
 pression at all ! 
 
 Five days after his mother’s death, he had 
 seen him romping and playing as usual, and 
 from that day to this, her name had never 
 passed his lips ! And now he talked of her 
 as if her memory were very fresh and 
 familiar ; and looked upon death as calmly 
 as if he had been contemplating it all his 
 life. 
 
 What did it mean ? When had he thought 
 upon such things ? How was it that he, who 
 had enjoyed to the full the pleasures of his 
 young life, should be so ready to renounce 
 them all? 
 
 Sir Everard w^as fairly baffled, as he 
 asked himself the question over and over 
 again. 
 
 Is it, then, so difficult to understand ? 
 
264 
 
 MlhVUDEESTOOD. 
 
 Sir Everard should have gone to WordS' 
 worth, and learnt his lesson there. 
 
 “ Children,” he says, “ are blest and power- 
 ful:— 
 
 “Their world lies more justly balanced. 
 
 Partly at their feet, and part far from them.” 
 
 This is the answer to the question. A 
 child lives, no doubt, in his surroundings 
 throws himself heart and soul into the pleas- 
 ures or the sorrows of the moment ; and is 
 immersed in the interests of the path which 
 lies straight before him. 
 
 But this is not all. Talk to any child for 
 a few minutes, and see, if, in the description 
 of his hopes and joys some such phrases 
 as these do not occur : “ When I get big 
 “ When I am a man “ Some day when I 
 am older.” 
 
 He is looking for something else ; he is 
 reaching on to some state he knows not of, 
 but which is to be more perfect than his 
 
 present one. 
 
 “ Sweetest melodies are those 
 That are by distance made more sweet ’ 
 
MllSUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 265 
 
 There . s something else waiting for him— 
 worlds not realized — glories as yet unknown. 
 In what will consist their charm, he knows 
 not ; but the vague is the possible, and the 
 unknown is the glorious. So, perhaps, the 
 ‘‘ Land which is very far off’ is more pres- 
 ent to him than it is to those of riper years ; 
 not so much more shadowy than any other 
 part of the transcendent future lying before 
 him. 
 
 A child’s world is so full of mystery too. 
 Everything is so wonderful and unexplained, 
 that the ^‘Things unseen and eternal” are 
 scarcely more incomprehensible than the 
 things unseen and temporal. Where every- 
 thing is so strange, one thing is not much 
 more strange than another. 
 
 Look how many inexplicable things are 
 occurring every day around him. Take the 
 mysteries ot birth and death, for instance 
 How soon he grows familiar with them 
 In a few days, the new little brother or 
 sister seems as though it had always been 
 .here ; and when the loss does not occur in 
 23 
 
266 
 
 MI8UNJ)ERST00L 
 
 the house, or affect him very nearlj’, ha 
 seldom asks questions after the rush that 
 follows the first announcement, but contents 
 himself with a general resume of the occur- 
 rence m some such a train of thought as 
 this : “ Poor mamma was crying yesterday ; 
 and we are all going to have black frocks.” 
 
 He takes everything upon trust, believing 
 implicitly everything which is told him : he 
 never cavils or argues, or reasons. He be- 
 lieves his elders infallible — in fact, he must : 
 have they not proved right over and over 
 again? Not being able to understand, he 
 must trust ; and to a boundless faith and a 
 vivid imagination all things are possible ! 
 
 It may be that some such ideas as these 
 did at last float across the mind of Sir Ever- 
 ard, as he sat by the boy, who from first to 
 ast had been misunderstood. 
 
 One day Humphrey woke with a start, as 
 if from a dream, and saic eagerly : “ Didn't 
 you promise they shouldn’t make me well ?’ 
 
 “ Yes, my darling.” 
 
MI&UNDEBSTOOD. 26 ; 
 
 “ I thought for a moment — or I drean\t— 
 that I was getting well — and — it was ” 
 
 “ It was what ?” asked Sir Everard, trem 
 bling lest a wish for life should be springing 
 up in the boy’s breast, and that the regrets, 
 whose non-existence he had marvelled at, 
 should be going to overpower him at last. 
 
 “ It was so horrible !” said the boy. 
 
 Strange that we should be subject to such 
 sudden revulsions of feeling! The very 
 words which set the father’s mind at rest, 
 jarred upon his feelings, and before he was 
 aware, he had said, almost reproachfully, 
 “ Horrible, Humphrey ! to stay with me ?” 
 
 “You forget, father — you forget what I 
 should be.” 
 
 “ But I would have made it so happy for 
 you, my little Humphrey,” burst from Sir 
 Everard. “ You should never ” 
 
 He stopped, for there was a far-away lo 
 in the boy’s eyes, and he was gazing inte/d 
 ly at the picture. 
 
 Sir Everard thought he was not listening 
 But in a few minutes he spoke. 
 
268 
 
 JkI8 UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 “ 1 am thinking I should not ha\ e minded 
 it so much, if mother were here. I could 
 lie in her arms all day, like I used then 
 (pointing to the picture) ; but now ” 
 
 “ You could lie in my arms, my darling.” 
 
 “In yours, father? you’ve always got 
 Miles. You never take me in your arms.” 
 
 “ I didn’t ever think you would care to 
 come, my little Humphrey.” 
 
 “ Oh ! but I often should though ; only I 
 knew you would rather have him.” 
 
 “ Oh ! hush ! hush ! When have you 
 wanted to come?” 
 
 “Well, not so very often, father — only 
 sometimes — a good while ago.” 
 
 “ But, my child, I would just as soon have 
 had you as Miles. I only take him because 
 he is so small. Why do you say I would 
 rather have him ?” 
 
 “ I thought so, father, because you smiled 
 quite differently when you looked at him, 
 and called him your darling mud more 
 than you did me, and kissed him— oh! sc 
 much oftener.” 
 
MISUNDMBSTOOD. 
 
 265 
 
 Sir Everard could have implored the child 
 to stop. He took the thin hand in his and 
 caressed it. 
 
 “ Miles is such a baby, you know. I did 
 not think you would be jealous of him.” 
 
 “Jealous?” said Humphre}^ rather puz- 
 zled ; “jealous means angry — doesn’t it?” 
 
 “ Well — yes ; I suppose it does.” 
 
 “ Oh, then, I wasn’t jealous,” said the boy, 
 earnestly, “ because I never was angry. 
 Poor little Miles couldn’t remember mother, 
 you see, and I could — so it was quite fair. 
 Only now and then — sometimes it ” 
 
 “ What, dear boy ?’' 
 
 “ It made me want mother so dreadfully^ 
 said Humphrey, his eyes filling with tears 
 “ But now,” he added, dreamily, for the 
 drowsiness was beginning to overpower 
 him, again, “ I’m going to her, or at least 
 God’s going to send her to fetch me.” And 
 he closed his heavy eyes. 
 
 Sir Everard sat on, meditating. He 
 nused on the by-gone time when his wife haa 
 'old him Humphrev was as loving as Miles 
 23* 
 
MISITI^DEBSI OOD. 
 
 270 
 
 and he had inwardly denied it; ae mused 
 on the responsibility of bringing up chil- 
 dren, and the necessity of living constantly 
 with them to hope to understand the com- 
 plications of their characters ; and sadly he 
 reflected on the irreparable loss his children 
 had sustained in the mother, who would 
 have done it all so well. 
 
 He wms not a morbid man, and he did 
 not reproach himself for what had been un- 
 avoidable; for a man belongs more to the 
 world than to his home ; and his home 
 ought not to throw any hindrance in his 
 path of usefulness. But he told himsell 
 plainly that he had failed ; that, satisfied if 
 his children were well and happy, he had 
 been content to go no further, and to re- 
 main in ignorance of all that Humphrey’s 
 simple words had disclosed. 
 
 He was filled with admiration for the 
 generous nature which had borne so pa- 
 tiently to see another preferred, and had 
 charmed away the feeling which had arisen 
 jometimes, by the reflection, '' 1 1 is quite fair.’ 
 
jdlSUNDMSSTOOD. 
 
 271 
 
 He thought how the same circumstances 
 acting upon a different temperament might 
 have produced jealousy, discontent, and 
 bitter feeling; the little brothers might 
 have grown up to hate each other, and he 
 would never have perceived it. And with 
 an uncontrollable feeling he knelt down by 
 the bedside, and covered the child with 
 kisses. 
 
 Humphrey opened his eyes and smiled. 
 “ I was dreaming of mother,” he said ; “ she 
 was asking me if you had sent her any 
 message.” 
 
 “ Tell her, my darling, how much I love 
 you, and how sorry I am to let you go.” 
 
 “ So sorry to let me go,” he repeated, 
 with the old expression of triumph coming 
 into his face ; “ and that you love mo very 
 much ; as much as Miles, shall I say.” 
 
 “ As much as Miles,” said Sir Everard. 
 
 “ And that’s quite true, father ?” 
 
 “ Quite true, my own precious child.” 
 
 A smile flitted over his face, and he shut 
 his eyes, saying, “ I’ve often forgotten you? 
 
272 
 
 UISTTNDUMSTOOL . 
 
 messages before, father, but I shan’t forget 
 this one !” . . . . 
 
 Presently he roused up again, and said, 
 “ I should like to do that thing people do 
 before they die.” 
 
 " What thing?” 
 
 “ I forget the name of it in English. In 
 French it is the same as the Gospels and 
 Epistles.” 
 
 “The same as the Gospels and Epistles? 
 What can you mean ?” 
 
 “ Virginie calls them ‘ Le Noveau Testa* 
 ment.’ What’s the English for that?” 
 
 “ New Testament.” 
 
 “ But what’s testament in English ? I can’t 
 remember words now.” 
 
 “ Testament in English ? Oh ! will.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ! — will — that’s it. Well, I want 
 to make my will ; will you write it down as 
 I say it?” 
 
 Sir Everard fetched some writing mate- 
 rials, and drew a little table to the bedside. 
 
 Humphrey dictated. “ In large letters 
 first, father, write— 
 
MISUNDMB8T00D. 
 
 273 
 
 ‘HUMPHREY’S WILL 
 
 “ I Itdve my knife with the two blades to 
 Mileii. One of the blades is broken, but the 
 other is quite good, and Virginie needn’t be 
 afraid of his hurting h mself, because it has 
 been quite blunt and rusty ever since I cut 
 Carlo’s nails with it, and left it out all night 
 in the lain. And Dolly must take care of 
 my garden, and not let the flowers die, 
 And father, you’re to have my prayer-book 
 and my microscope ; and I suppose I must 
 leave Virginie my little gold pin, because 
 she’s asked me for it so often, and I shall 
 never grow up now to be a man, and wear 
 it with a blue scarf, like I always meant to,» 
 And Doll}'^ may have one of my books. I 
 don’t think she ivould understand ‘ Peter 
 Parley,’ so perhaps it had better be the: 
 ‘Boy Hunters.’ Then there’s the ferret,, 
 and the guinea-pigs, and the rabbits. I 
 think Dolly shall have them too, because I 
 know she’ll take care of them, What else 
 ^ye I got? Oh, yes !, there’s my fishing- 
 
274 
 
 MIS UND STOOD. 
 
 rod, and my skates, and my cricket things 
 all those are for Miles. I’ve got twopence 
 somewhere ; I don’t exactl3r know where, 
 but give them to lame Tom in the village ; 
 and tell him I’m more sorry for him than 
 ever now. And will somebody be kind to 
 my poor jackdaw ? I know you all think 
 him very ugly, and he is cross, and he does 
 peck, but please, for my sake, take care of 
 him, because I’m the only friend he has in 
 the world, and now I’m going to leave him. 
 Perhaps lame Tom had better have him, 
 because he’ll understand better than any 
 of you, how sad it is to be — lame — and 
 obliged to be still in one place all day. My 
 little sweet-pea in the nursery window is 
 for Jane. It takes a great deal of water. 
 I used to pump my whole little pump of 
 water on it four or five times a day. It 
 never was strong, that little sweet-pea. 
 Sometimes I think it had too much water. 
 But Jane will settle that. 
 
 Well ! I think that’s all, C^ood-bye 
 everybody,” 
 
MiaUNVERSTO OR. 
 
 275 
 
 “ Have you put ‘ Good-bye everybody ?’ ’ 
 te asked, eagerly. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Sir Everard, vainly en- 
 deavoring to steady his voice, “ I have put 
 it, dear. Is there anything more ?” 
 
 “Don’t people write their names, father’ 
 Could I write mine, do you think, myself?’ 
 
 “ I don’t think so, my darling,” his father 
 returned, in the same husky tone ; “ but 1 
 will write them for you.” 
 
 “All of them, please, father — Humphrey, 
 and Everard, and Charles. Isn’t it a lot !” 
 exclaimed Humphrey, with a touch of his 
 old merriment. 
 
 “ There it is in full,” said Sir Everard ; 
 “ Humphrey Everard Charles Buncombe.” 
 
 “ May I try and make a mark, father ?” 
 
 “ If you like, dear,” said the father, sadly ; 
 for he knew it was impossible that the poor 
 little hand and arm should perform such an 
 office, and Humphrey saw it himself directly 
 he tried to move, and abandoned the at- 
 .empt of his own accord. 
 
 “Now hide it away somewhere, father 
 
MISUNDMRSTOOJ). 
 
 276 
 
 be exclaimed, eagerly, “for no one must 
 read it yet. I’m glad I’ve made my will,” 
 he added, as, with a sigh of weariness, for 
 he was worn out by so much talking, he 
 closed his eyes, and disposed himself to 
 sleep. 
 
 Half-an-hour after, a letter was put into 
 Sir Everard’s hand. It was from his broth- 
 er-in-law, and contained these few lines : 
 
 “ My dear Everard, — I have a few days 
 to spare, and will come down to Wareham 
 on my way to Portsmouth. Tell Humphrey 
 I hope to be in time for his Harvest Home, 
 and beg him to find me a pretty partner. 
 
 “ Yours, etc.” 
 
 Sir Everard turned the letter over to look 
 at the date. It could not surely be the am 
 swer to his letter ! But on examining the 
 post-mark, he found that it had been written 
 some days previously from Portsmouth, and 
 that it was directed to his club in London, 
 from whence it had been forwarded. 
 
MIS VNDSRSTO OD. 
 
 277 
 
 ‘‘He has never got mine/' he reflected 
 ‘‘ Poor fellow ! what a shock it will be when 
 he arrives." 
 
 At that very moment Uncle Charlie was 
 reading Sir Everard's letter at an hotel in 
 London. It dropped from his hand, and he 
 remained wrapped in sad meditation. 
 
 “ Too late to-night," he said at last, look- 
 ing at his watch, “but by the firs' train to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 He roused himself, and went to the win- 
 dow. There, looking down upon the cease- 
 less stream of carriages in the busy street 
 below, his thoughts reverted to the Sunday 
 at Wareham, and the boy's strength and 
 beauty. He thought of him as he had last 
 seen him, radiant with health and spirits, 
 waving his hat on the door-step as the dog- 
 cart drove away. But perhaps recollection 
 brought the child most clearly before him 
 reeping up his leg, when he came to say 
 ‘ Good-night," and begging for more stories 
 on the morrow. 
 
 “ Going to-morrow ! what a short visit ^ 
 24 
 
278 
 
 MIS UNDERSTC OD. 
 
 “ I cvill pay you a longer visit next time. 
 “ But when will next time be?” 
 
 “ Yes, when will next time be?” 
 
 ‘ Ah ! when indeed ?” sighed Unc e Char liCi 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 B rightly rose the week which had 
 been fixed for the Harvest Home, but 
 it was welcomed by no festivities in the 
 fields and meadows of Wareham Abbey. 
 
 The flags and tents which had been pre- 
 pared were stored away again ; the holiday 
 dresses were put by unfinished ; Dolly, the 
 laundry -maid, hid away, wdth a great sob, 
 the flaming yellow print with a red spot she 
 had been all the way to the market town 
 to buy ; and village mothers, standing in 
 groups at their cottage doors, whispered 
 together with tearful eyes, and made faint 
 attempts to keep their own restless boys in 
 sight. 
 
 Thei'e was mourning far and wide Ibr the 
 young life that was passing away, and rough 
 
 (*7?) 
 
28 o 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 voices faltered as they spoke 6f tne bright 
 face and ringing laugh which should be 
 known no more among them. 
 
 Humphrey was sinking rapidly ; but like 
 a lamp which, before it goes finally out, 
 flickers into something like a bright flame, 
 did his brain, after those many days of wan- 
 dering unconsciousness, seem to regain 
 something of its wonted vigor. 
 
 “ What does it mean?” he asked his father 
 over and over again, whenever he opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 “ What does what mean, my darling ?” 
 
 “ Why, this funny noise here” — touching 
 his head. 
 
 “ It means that your poor head aches.” 
 
 “ Oh ! but it means something else ; it’s a 
 sort of rushing and singing noise, always 
 rushing and singing. What is it like ? Do 
 help me to remember !” 
 
 Sir Everard racked his brain to satisfy 
 the poor little questioner, but to no purpose. 
 
 You’re not trying, father,’ said the little 
 fellow peevishly. 
 
MISUNDSUSTOCH. 281 
 
 Sit Evcrard wondered to himsexf whethei 
 the child could be thinking of the rushing 
 of water in the ears described by people 
 rescued from drowning, and answered — 
 
 “ Is it like the sound of water ?” 
 
 “ Yes, yes !” exclaimed Humphrey ; “ it’s 
 
 like the sound ,” he stopped, and then 
 
 added, “ of many waters.” 
 
 He seemed struck by his own words. 
 
 “ What is that, father ? Where have I 
 heard that ? What is it like ?” 
 
 Sir Everard thought he had satisfied him, 
 and was distressed to hear the question 
 again, fearing he would exhaust himself by 
 so much talk. 
 
 “ I told you before, darling, it is like a 
 sound of water.” 
 
 “ That’s all wrong,” he said, mournfully, 
 half crying," it’s not water, it’s waters — many 
 waters.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, my child,” said Sir Everard 
 soothingly, alarmed at his agitation. 
 
 “ But say it again, father ; say it righl 
 through.” 
 
 24 
 
282 
 
 MIS aNBEMSTOOn. 
 
 Sir Everard repeated, “A sound of many 
 wateis.” 
 
 “ There !” exclaimed Humphrey “ mm 
 what is it ? You must know what it means 
 now !” 
 
 Sir Everard was more puzzled than ever, 
 having thought that they had come to an 
 end of the discussion. 
 
 “ I really don’t know, my boy !” 
 
 “ If you'd got a sound of many waters in 
 your head, father, you’d like to hear what it 
 means ! Oh, where did I hear all about it ? 
 Where have I been ? Who was near me ? 
 You were there, father, I know, for I re- 
 member your face ; and all the while some- 
 body was telling us what the rushing and 
 singing in my head means !” 
 
 Sir Everard thought the boy was wander- 
 ing, and did not try to answer him any 
 more. He was accustomed to sit for hours 
 by the bedside, while Humphrey rambled 
 incoherently on. It was no use trying to fol- 
 low the poor little brain through the mazes 
 of thought into which it now plunged. 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 383 
 
 Presently Humphrey startled him by say- 
 ing— 
 
 “ What does Charlie mean ?'* 
 
 “ Well, nothing particular, darling,” 
 
 “ But it does, it does,” said the child 
 “ Does it mean the same thing as a sound ol 
 many waters ?” 
 
 “ Y es, yes,” said his father, still thinking 
 he was wandering. 
 
 “ Then if I say ‘ a sound of Charlie,’ ” said 
 Humphrey, “ it means the same as ‘ i sound 
 of rushing and singing in my head ? ” 
 
 “ No, no, dear,” answered Sir 1 verard, 
 surprised to hnd him so rational. 
 
 “ Why, you said ‘ Yes,’ just now,” said the 
 child, with a sob. “ If you tell stories, 
 father, you’ll go to hell like . ... 1 Vho was 
 it told stories about the wild men a dinner 
 party ?” he concluded, excitedly. 
 
 “ Uncle Charlie,” answered hij father , 
 ‘‘ but he didn’t tell stories, dear, it was only 
 a joke.” 
 
 He turned his head away as he spoke, foi 
 .hs mention of the dinner-party brought up 
 
284 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 the image of the boy bursting into the 
 library full of life and health and beauty, 
 and the contrast with the little worn-out 
 figure lying on the bed overcame him for a 
 moment. 
 
 But the latter part of the speech, and his 
 father’s emotion, were lost upon Humphrey 
 and he only repeated to himself over and 
 over again, “ Uncle Charlie, Uncle Charlie. 
 Is that what I mean? What is Uncle 
 Charlie ? Who is Uncle Charlie ?” 
 
 At this moment there is a sound as of an 
 arrival ; voices and footsteps outside ; but 
 Humphrey hears them not. Some one 
 knocks at the library door. One of the 
 maids in the distance steals gently towards 
 it, for Sir Everard holds up his hand to 
 enforce silence, hoping that the busy brain 
 may get a few moments’ rest. The door 
 opens, and a young man enters. Sir Ever- 
 ard rises, and goes to meet him. After a 
 few moments’ whispered conversation, both 
 advance noiselessly to the sofa, and stand 
 looking at the little face on the pillow with 
 its closed eyes. Closed, but not sleeping. 
 
MlSl .YDERSTOOD. 
 
 285 
 
 The weary brain is tr 3 dng to rake \ip, irom 
 its fragmentary recollections of the past, 
 something that may throw a light on his 
 present perplexities. Dim, confused figures 
 flit across the stage of his fancy, glimmer, 
 and disappear. 
 
 “ Stop !’' he cries feebly, as if the moving 
 shadows wearied his brain ; oh, please 
 stand still!’' 
 
 Roused by the sound of his own voice, he 
 f pens his eyes, and, ere he closes them again, 
 fixes them for a moment on the form stand- 
 ing by his bedside. Hush 1 do not break 
 the spell 1 The mists are clearing, the 
 shadows becoming more distinct. From 
 the fleeting chaos before him one figure 
 now stands out more clear, more immov- 
 able than the rest — the figure of a tall, fair 
 man. Hush I he has found the clue ! The 
 grey walls c f the old church are rising 
 around him ; the sides of the old pew are 
 towering above him. Just in front of him 
 is the large prayer-book, surmounted by the 
 monogram ‘"Adelaide,” and by his side the 
 tall, fair man ! Hush it is all coming back now 
 
286 VNDjlHSTuOI). 
 
 In the distance sits his father ^vith hii 
 legs crossed, and his head turneo towards 
 the pulpit, where stands the old clergyman, 
 with his Bible in his hand. Breathlessly the 
 Doy listens for the words he longs to hear ; 
 but no sound comes from the lips of the 
 preacher. Disappointment comes down 
 upon his spirit, when, in his vision, the 
 figure sitting by him takes out a pencil, and 
 underlines something in his Bible. 
 
 Of course,’' cries Humphrey out loud, 
 he knows ; he can tell me. Uncle Charlie !” 
 The real figure by the bedside starts and 
 comes forward, but Sir Everard holds him 
 back. 
 
 He is only dreaming, don’t disturb him.” 
 
 It was Uncle Charlie,” murmurs Hum- 
 phrey ; and he can tell me. Many waters 
 and a pencil and a Bible .... and Uncle 
 Charlie sitting there .... and then . . . , 
 there came in his face . . . .” 
 
 To the consternation of the by- slanders, 
 Humphrey went off into fits of weak laughter. 
 The association of ideas recalled another 
 circumstance ; his mind has wandered away 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 287 
 
 from the point on which it was fixed, and he 
 is watching again the encounter between his 
 uncle and the wasp. 
 
 ‘‘ He’ll be stung !” he cries, shaking with 
 aughter, and he puts his wasted hand to his 
 mouth, as if he knew he was in church, and 
 ought to check himself. The figure by the 
 bedside turns to Sir Everard, and whispers, 
 but the only answer is — 
 
 ‘^Nothing but a dream. For God’s sake 
 do not awake him.” 
 
 Thoroughly exhausted, Humphrej^ is lying 
 still again, but now his mind is once more 
 perturbed, for his uncle’s figure has disap- 
 peared from his vision, and he tries to con- 
 jure it before him in vain. 
 
 ‘‘ He is gone !” he exclaims, with a sob, 
 just as I was going to ask him. Oh, come 
 back, come back, Uncle Charlie !” 
 
 Some one kneels by his side, some one 
 lays a hand on his brow and he opens his 
 eyes with a start. The church, the pew, the 
 prayer-book — all are gone — but in their 
 place — his uncle ! 
 
 Oh, Uncle Charlie !” sobbed the child 
 
288 
 
 MIS VNDEBSTO OD. 
 
 trying to throw his feeble arms round iia 
 neck, is it really you ? Where do you come 
 from? You'll tell me all about it ; youll help 
 me to remember!’' 
 
 Tell you what, my dear, dear little fel 
 low ?” 
 
 ‘‘ I don’t know what ! I can’t tell what j 
 I t’s something I want to remember, and 1 
 don^t know what it is I” 
 
 “ What was it like ?” asked Uncle Charlie. 
 
 It was like a church,” answered Hum- 
 phrey, excitedly, ‘^and it was like a sum 
 mer’s morning, and you and me and Fathei 
 sitting still, while somebody was telling us 
 what the sound in my head means. I cant 
 remember what he said, but if I only could 
 I shouldn’t mind the rushing and singing a 
 bit; for when I heard it that time, every- 
 thing about it was happy, and bright, and 
 beautiful. But you were there. Uncle 
 Charlie, and you must know, for you wrote 
 something down about it.” 
 
 “ I told you so, Everard,’ said the young 
 Man to his brother-in-law ; I knew he was 
 trying to remember the sermon on the 
 
MISUNDERSTOOD. 289 
 
 Rev^elations we heard tbe Sunday I was 
 down here.” 
 
 “ But you’re not telling me, Uncle Charlie,' 
 sobbed Humphrey. 
 
 “ I will, my boy, I will ; but you must let 
 me go and fetch my Bible, for I don’t re- 
 member the words exactly.” 
 
 “ Must you go ?” faintly uttered Hum- 
 phrey. “ Oh, don’t go. Uncle Charlie ; you’ll 
 disappear like you did just now, and perhaps 
 never come back again.” 
 
 Uncle Charlie reassured him, and gently 
 disengaged himself from his grasp. 
 
 “ Be quick ! be quick !” panted the child, 
 and his voice failed him with his excitement. 
 
 Sir Everard tried to soothe him, and hoped 
 he would be quiet. But a few minutes after 
 his uncle was gone, it became evident that 
 Humphrey was struggling to say something 
 before his uncle should return. His excite- \ 
 ment and exhaustion made him more inco- 
 herent than usual, and after once or twice 
 repeating his uncle’s name, his voice failed 
 altogether, and Ihouglr his white lips moved, 
 no sound came. 
 
 25 
 
290 
 
 MISUNDSMSTOOD. 
 
 Sir Everard was greatly distressed ; the 
 boy fixed his eye so pleadingly on him, he 
 was so earnest in what he was trying to say, 
 that it went to the father’s heart not to be 
 able to understand him. He strained every 
 nerve to catch the words, but in vain. 
 
 The excitement of hearing his uncle re- 
 turning gave Humphrey a momentary 
 strength, and he held his father’s hand with 
 all the strength he could muster, and said, 
 “ Promise !” 
 
 “ I promise, my darling,” said Sir Everard, 
 hastily, too thankful to catch even a word. 
 
 And nobody ever knew that the boy’s last 
 request had beeij that never, never was his 
 uncle to know that it was his story that had 
 first made him think of the branch that 
 stretched over the pond where the water- 
 lilies grew. 
 
 Quite worn out he allowed himself to be 
 .aid back upon his pillow, and with closed 
 eyes waited while his uncle opened the 
 Bible and found the underlined passage : — 
 
 “ And I heard a voice from heaven as the 
 voice of many waters .... and I heard the 
 
MlSUNDSBSTOiD. 
 
 291 
 
 harpers harping with their harps. And they 
 sang as it were a new song . . . and no 
 man could learn that song, but the hundred 
 and forty and four thousand which were re- 
 deemed from the earth.” 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 No more restless questions, no more per- 
 plexed search after what is lying somewhere 
 in the past. He did not speak, he did not 
 answer his father’s eager enquiry as to 
 whether that was what he had been trying 
 to remember ; and he lay so still, so motion- 
 less, that for one moment they thought he 
 had passed away without hearing the words 
 he had longed for. But the unsatisfied look 
 had gone from his face, and his father saw 
 that his mind was at rest. He was breath- 
 ing gently as in a deep sleep. 
 
 That is all the watchers saw. And the 
 child himself! How shall we attempt to fol- 
 low the hazy imaginings of his weak and 
 wandering mind ? 
 
 Dreamily are returning to him the 
 thoughts which had possession of him that 
 summer Sunday as he sat in his corner in 
 
2g2 
 
 MIS UITDSBST OOD. 
 
 the old grey church. Visions of beauty arc 
 floating before him, evoked that day in his 
 mind by the powerful imagery of Scripture ; 
 now recalled by association: the material 
 joys which form a child’s idea of heaven — 
 the gates, and the harps, and the angels. 
 Dim conceptions of white-robed thousands 
 wandering in the golden Jerusalem, by the 
 jasper sea. Not strange to him that throng 
 of angels, for foremost among them all, more 
 beautiful than any, is the figure of his moth- 
 er, standing as in the picture, looking down 
 upon him with a smile. Heaven to him is 
 peopled with her image, for he has no other 
 notion of all that is fair and holy. In that 
 great multitude whom no man can number, 
 there is not one that can be called a stranger, 
 all have the soft eyes and the familiar smile 
 What recks he more of the throbbing and 
 singing in his aching head — the sounds as of 
 rushing waters? Is it not all explained? 
 It is the voice of many waters and the voice 
 of the great multitude, singing the wondrous 
 song which only they can sing ! The preach- 
 er heard it that Sunday morning; did he 
 
MISUNDBRSTOOD. 
 
 293 
 
 not say, 1 heard a voice from heaven” ? and 
 Humphrey hears it now ! Imperfectly as 
 yet it sounds upon his ear, faintly the echoes 
 are borne to him, but it will sound more 
 i clearly soon ! 
 
 It was not in vain that the old clergyman 
 had warmed and glowed with his subject, 
 and by the very earnestness of his own feel- 
 ing carried his little hearer with him ; for 
 his words, though they had lain dormant 
 during the weeks which followed, apparently 
 wasted and forgotten, were, by the power 
 of association, rising when they were needed 
 to bless and soothe his death-bed. 
 
 Faint is the heart of the preacher, often- 
 times, as he watches his congregation dis- 
 perse; for he fears that his words, even 
 though they chained the minds of his hear- 
 ers for the moment, will pass away as they 
 oass the threshold, and be lost in the worldly 
 nterests which meet them at the very door. 
 
 And yet it may be, that all unknown to 
 him, perhaps in the very hearts he would 
 least have expected, his words have tak(?n 
 root, and will bear fruit some day. 
 
294 
 
 MISUNDEBSl OOD. 
 
 Deep silence reigned in the room, while 
 the two men watched the child. 
 
 It was very long before he spoke again, 
 but when he did, it was evident that he was 
 not himself. 
 
 “ It is getting very dark,” he murmured, 
 and Sir Everard’s heart sank within him, for 
 the sun was only just beginning to set. “It 
 is time for us to go to bed. Where’s Miles?” 
 
 For a few brief moments the throbbing 
 has ceased, and with its cessation, voices and 
 visions have fled away. 
 
 Sir Everard stole away to fetch the little 
 fellow, and found him in his nightgown re 
 peating his evening prayer to Virginie. 
 With a few hasty explanations. Sir Everard 
 took him in his arms, and carried him away. 
 
 “ But, Fardie,” said Miles, as they hur. 
 tied downstairs “ I hadn’t quite finished ; I 
 have not said my hymn.” 
 
 “ Never mind, darling ! you shall say it to 
 Humphrey to-night.” 
 
 He carried him gentl} into the drawing 
 room, and set him down upon the sofa. 
 
 Miles was frightened at the silence 
 
MISVINDEBSTOOD. 
 
 295 
 
 and darkness, and nestled up closer to his 
 brother. 
 
 “ Humphie ! Humphie ! wake up and give 
 me your hand.” 
 
 “ Don’t be frightened, Miles,” murmured 
 Humphrey, dreamily : “ come close to me, 
 I’ll take care of you.” 
 
 He strove to move to the edge of the sofa, 
 as if he thought his little brother’s bed was 
 close up against it, and he threw his feeble 
 arm round Miles in the dear old protecting 
 way. 
 
 “We won’t talk much to-night. Miles, be- 
 cause I’m so very sleepy. Good-night.” 
 
 He said something faintly about seeing 
 his mother, but Miles couldn’t catch the 
 words. 
 
 “ Didn’t quite understand, Humphie.” 
 
 Something of a movement of impatience 
 passed over Humphrey’s face. 
 
 “ Of course 3"ou don’t — because — ^you can’t 
 — remember her.” 
 
 “ No,” said little Miles, meekly, “ but you’ll 
 tell me, Humphie?” 
 
 “ To-morrow,” he murmured, “ I shall be 
 
MIS UNDERSTOOD. 
 
 296 
 
 able to explain — better — to-morrow — good 
 night — good-night.” 
 
 And in the silence that reigned, every one 
 present heard the little brothers exchange 
 their last kiss. 
 
 “ I can’t see them,” said Sir Everard, 
 huskily ; “ some one draw up the blind.” 
 
 The setting sun outside was illumining 
 the landscape ere it sank to rest, and shed- 
 ding its beams on the haunts and the com- 
 panions of the boy’s young life. On the 
 lambs he had chased in the meadows, on the 
 birds he had watched since they had learned 
 to fly, on the fields and the gardens which 
 seemed so empty without him, it was shin- 
 ing with a softened glow ; — but it seemed to 
 have reserved its richest glory for the chil- 
 dren, for, as the blind went slowly up, such 
 a flood of light poured into the room, that 
 the eyes of the father were dazzled, and it 
 was some minutes before he could distin 
 guish them. 
 
 There, in the golden sunset, they lay. The 
 sun kissed their little faces, and touched 
 
Ml 8 UNB MUST 0 on. 
 
 29; 
 
 witli a loving hand their curly hair. Il 
 lingered lovingly round them, as if it knew 
 that the lambs would be frisking when it 
 rose again, the birds would welcome it with 
 their glad song ; but that never again would 
 it rest on the nestling forms and clasped 
 hands of the two little brothers ! 
 
 Sir Everard, bending over them, saw a 
 troubled expression over Humphrey’s face. 
 
 “ What can it be that ails the child ?” he 
 mentally questioned ; “ is it physical pain, 
 or is something troubling his thoughts ? Is 
 the fear of death coming over him ?” 
 
 He did not like to speak for fear of dis- 
 turbing him, but as the look deepened al- 
 most to pain, he could not restrain himself 
 any longer. 
 
 “ Humphrey, my darling,” he exclaimed, 
 in his longing to do something, be it ever so 
 little, to soothe his boy’s dying hour, “ what 
 is it? What can I do for you ?” 
 
 Nothing! With all his love and all his 
 yearning, nothing ! 
 
 For surging once more in the boy’s brain 
 is the noise as of rushing and singing, and 
 
298 
 
 Ml S UN D EB STOOD. 
 
 with its sound a fear has risen in his breast 
 Shall he ever, ever catch the njusic of that 
 wondrous song? Doubts of his own power 
 to learn it are troubling his wandering 
 thoughts; dim misgivings that children can 
 not learn it, founded on his own inability to 
 follow the singing in church. Always too 
 soon or too late ! Do children ever learn it ? 
 ‘‘ ^ And no man could learn that song save 
 the hundred and forty and four. . / nothing 
 about children there 
 
 Vain is the father’s endeavor to reach a 
 trouble of this kind ; vainly, bending over 
 him, does he seek to discover its cause, in 
 his longings to remove or alleviate it. 
 
 Is the child, then, to pass away uneasy, 
 with a cloud upon his happiness ; or must a 
 miracle be worked in his favor? Must 
 Heaven open and show him the army of 
 innocents standing at the right hand of 
 God? No. God’s ways are not as oui 
 ways: infinite in power. He yet reveals 
 Himself by the simplest means. 
 
 As once before He sent the child consola- 
 tion so will He send it now. As onge be-i 
 
MUSUNDERSTOOD, 
 
 29c 
 
 fore, not by signs and wonders, but by the 
 gift of sleep, so now, not by miracles and 
 visions, but by the voice of his baby brother 
 Talk to me, Humphie. Don't go tc 
 sleep yet. I haven't said my hymn. Fardie 
 said I might say it to you to-night. Shall I 
 say it now?" 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, Miles 
 raised himself on his knees, and put his lit- 
 tle hands together. Then arose the sound 
 of the baby voice : 
 
 ‘‘ Around the throne of God in Heaven 
 Thousands of children stand ; 
 
 Children whose sins are all forgiven, 
 
 A holy, happy band. 
 
 Singing Glory, Glory, Glory.’* 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Faster and louder comes the rushing and 
 singing, but the misgiving is lulled to rest. 
 Faster and faster, louder and louder, surg- 
 ng around him. But hushed are the doubts 
 at once and for ever, and the fear has 
 vanished away ! Loud in his brain sounds 
 the song of the children, throbbing there 
 almost to pain ; beating so loud as to stun 
 and confuse him. Everything seems to be 
 
30C 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 turning and whirling; and, as if to save 
 himself, he opens his eyes. On what a sight 
 did they fall ! There, close before him, 
 bathed in light, and a glory round her brow 
 stands the figure of his mother, looking 
 down upon him with a smile. And with a 
 glad smile of welcome he stretched out his 
 arms, and cried, “ Has God sent you to 
 fetch me at last, mother? Oh, mother. I’ll 
 come ! I’ll come !” 
 
 • • • ^ » 
 Those who were standing round, saw 
 only the expression of pain change to the 
 old sunny smile. His lips moved, and he 
 lifted his arms, as his eyes were raised for a 
 moment, to the picture above him, on which 
 the sun was pouring a dazzling light. They 
 closed ; but the smile, intensely radiant, lin- 
 gered about the parted lips; the short 
 breathing grew shorter . . . stopped . . . and 
 then . . . 
 
 It’s no use my saying the rest,'' said 
 little Miles in a whisper, ‘for Humphie has 
 gone to sleep." 
 
 Finis^ 
 
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