"I shall have them up in the nursery, and see them ripen every day."
"Why, you foolish boy," said his father, "you have picked them too soon, they will never ripen now."
Humphrey looked ruefully at his ears of corn. "I quite forgot," said he.
"They will never ripen now," repeated little Miles, sorrowfully.
"Never mind, Miles," said Humphrey, "I will plant them in the sunniest part of our own garden, where the soil is much better than here, and where, I daresay, they will grow much finer and better than if they had been left to ripen with the rest. Perhaps they will thank me some day for having pulled them up out of the rough field, and planted them in such a more beautiful place."
"Perhaps they will," breathed little Miles, clasping his hands with pleasure at the idea.
Miles was leaning against the gate, looking up admiringly at his brother, and Humphrey was sitting on the topmost bar, with the ears of corn in his hand.
"Let us go," said Sir Everard, suddenly; "it is intensely hot here, and I am longing to get under those limes in the next field."
The little boys climbed over the gate, and ran on to the indicated spot, followed more leisurely by their elders.