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 picture 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 bedside, often thought of the boy's allusions to his mother's picture, and of the look with 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, Humphrey?"
"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.