"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 I 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 Duncombe."
"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 attempt of his own accord.
"Now hide it away somewhere, father," he 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 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.