Osy had been left in a secluded corner of the garden while the funeral took place, to be out of the way. It had not seemed necessary to his mother to envelop him in mourning, and take him with her through that strange ceremonial, so mysterious to childish thoughts; and while she sat alone, the sound of his little voice and step became audible to her coming up the stairs. Osy, who was willing on ordinary occasions to spend the whole of his time out-of-doors, had been impatient to-day, touched by the prevailing agitation, though he did not know what it meant. He came in, stamping with his little feet, making up for the quiet which had been exacted from him for a few days past, and threw himself against Margaret’s knee. “Movver,” he said, breathless, “there’s a lady down in the libery.” “Yes, Osy, I know.” “Oh, movver knows,” he said, turning to his attendant, “I told you movver alvays knows. Very queer fings,” said Osy, reflectively, “have tummed to pass to-day.” “What things, Osy?” “Fings about Aunt Piercey,” said the little boy, counting upon his fingers; “somefing I don’t understand. You said, movver, she had don to heaven, but Parsons, she said you had all don to put her somewhere else, but I believe you best; and then there were all the carriages and the gemplemans, and the horse that runned away. But most strangest of all, the lady in the libery.” He paused to think. “I fought she wasn’t a lady at all, but a dressmaker or somefing.” “And then? you changed your mind?” “No,” said the little boy, doubtfully, “not me. But she looked out of the window, and then she called, ‘Gervase! Gervase!’--she touldn’t say, Gervase, Gervase, if she were one of the maids. I fink it’s the lady Cousin Gervase went to London to marrwy. And I’m glad,” Osy said, making another pause. He resumed, “I’m glad, because now I know that my big silver piece was a marrwage present, movver. He tooked it, but I dave it him all the same; and as it was a marrwage present, I don’t mind scarcely at all. But that is not the funniest fing yet,” said Osy, putting up his hand to his mother’s face to secure her attention; “there’s somefing more, movver. She tummed to the window, and she said, ‘Gervase, Gervase, who is that ickle boy?’” “Well, Osy, there was nothing very wonderful in that,” said Margaret, trying to smile. “Yes, mower, there was two fings wonderful.” He held out the small dirty forefinger again, and tapped upon it with the forefinger of his other little fat hand. “First--there touldn’t any lady tum to Greyshott and not know me. I’m not an ickle boy, I’m Osy; and another fing, she knows me already quite well; for she isn’t a beau’ful lady from London, like that one that singed songs, you know. She is the woman at the Seven Thorns. Sally, tum here and tell movver. We knowed her quite well, bof Sally and me.” “It’s quite true, ma’am, as Mr. Osy says, it’s quite, quite----”