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.

"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.

Sir Everard wondered to himself whether 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 right through."

Sir Everard repeated, "A sound of many waters."

"There!" exclaimed Humphrey, "now 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 remember your face; and all the while somebody was telling us what the rushing and singing in my head means!"

Sir Everard thought the boy was wandering, 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 follow the poor little brain through the mazes of thought into which it now plunged.

Presently Humphrey startled him by saying—

"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 of many waters?"

"Yes, yes," said his father, still thinking he was wandering.

"Then if I say 'a sound of Charlie,'" said Humphrey, "it means the same as 'a sound of rushing and singing in my head?'"

"No, no, dear," answered Sir Everard, surprised to find 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.... Who was it told stories about the wild men's dinner party?" he concluded, excitedly.

"Uncle Charlie," answered his father, "but he didn't tell stories, dear, it was only a joke."

He turned his head away as he spoke, for the mention of the dinner-party brought up 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 Everard 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. The weary brain is trying to rake up, from 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 opens his eyes, and, ere he closes them again, fixes them for a moment on the form standing by his bedside. Hush! do not break the spell! The mists are clearing, the shadows becoming more distinct. From the fleeting chaos before him one figure now stands out more clear, more immovable than the rest—the figure of a tall, fair man. Hush! he has found the clue! The grey walls of 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.

In the distance sits his father, with his legs crossed, and his head turned towards the pulpit, where stands the old clergyman, with his Bible in his hand. Breathlessly the boy 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 Humphrey; "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-standers, Humphrey went off into fits of weak laughter. The association of ideas recalled another circumstance; his mind has wandered away 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 laughter, 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, Humphrey is lying still again, but now his mind is once more perturbed, for his uncle's figure has disappeared from his vision, and he tries to conjure 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, trying to throw his feeble arms round his neck, "is it really you? Where do you come from? You'll tell me all about it; you'll help me to remember!"

"Tell you what, my dear, dear little fellow?"

"I don't know what! I can't tell what! It's something I want to remember, and I don't know what it is!"

"What was it like?" asked Uncle Charlie.

"It was like a church," answered Humphrey, excitedly, "and it was like a summer's morning, and you and me and Father sitting still, while somebody was telling us what the sound in my head means. I can't 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, everything 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 Revelations we heard the 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 remember the words exactly."

"Must you go?" faintly uttered Humphrey. "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 excitement and exhaustion made him more incoherent than usual, and after once or twice repeating his uncle's name, his voice failed altogether, and though his white lips moved, no sound came.

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 returning 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 been 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 laid 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 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."

* * * * * *

No more restless questions, no more perplexed 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 motionless, 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 breathing gently as in a deep sleep.

That is all the watchers saw. And the child himself! How shall we attempt to follow 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 the old grey church. Visions of beauty are 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 mother, 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 preacher heard it that Sunday morning; did he not say, "I 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 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 feeling 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, oftentimes, as he watches his congregation disperse; for he fears that his words, even though they chained the minds of his hearers for the moment, will pass away as they pass the threshold, and be lost in the worldly interests 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 taken root, and will bear fruit some day.

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 repeating 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 hurried 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 gently into the drawing room, and set him down upon the sofa.

Miles was frightened at the silence 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, because 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 you 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 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 shedding its beams on the haunts and the companions 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 shining with a softened glow;—but it seemed to have reserved its richest glory for the children, 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 distinguish them.

There, in the golden sunset, they lay. The sun kissed their little faces, and touched with a loving hand their curly hair. It 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 disturbing him, but as the look deepened almost 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 with its sound a fear has risen in his breast. Shall he ever, ever catch the music 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 our ways: infinite in power, He yet reveals Himself by the simplest means.

As once before He sent the child consolation so will He send it now. As once before, 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 to 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 little hands together. Then arose the sound of the baby voice:

* * * * *

Faster and louder comes the rushing and singing, but the misgiving is lulled to rest. Faster and faster, louder and louder, surging 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 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, lingered 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.