Half-an-hour after, a letter was put into Sir Everard's hand. It was from his brother-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 answer 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. "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, looking at his watch, "but by the first train to-morrow morning." He roused himself, and went to the window. There, looking down upon the ceaseless 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 creeping 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!" "I will pay you a longer visit next time." "But when will next time be?" "Yes, when will next time be?" * * * * * * * * "Ah! when indeed?" sighed Uncle Charlie. CHAPTER XVII. Brightly 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 prepared were stored away again; the holiday dresses were put by unfinished; Dolly, the laundry-maid, hid away, with 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. There was mourning far and wide for the young life that was passing away, and rough voices faltered as they spoke of the 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 wandering 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.