So I rose, and met his enquiring look with such explanation as suited his adult understanding.
"Please, sir," I said, politely, "this nice old man has been turned out by his grandsons, and he's on his way to town, where he's got some kind grandsons—"
—"Fwee of 'em," put in The Seraph.
—"And we were wondering," I hurried on, "if you'd give him a lift that far."
"I expect you're tired out," said the Bishop, kindly, turning to Granfa.
"I be none too peart, but terrible wishful to get under the roof o' my grandsons, thank 'ee."
"You shall have a seat beside Harry; I see you've had some lunch; and now, boys, I think we have time for an hour's fishing before we go, but first we must dispose of Charles Augustus. I don't like the way he looks. I don't know whether he's just foxy and pretending he's dead so we shan't use him for bait, or whether the ale was too much for him. At any rate, he's looking far from well." And the Bishop peered anxiously into the treacle tin.
So the search began for the ideal mate for Charles Augustus. He was laid in state on a large burdock leaf, where he stretched himself warily enough in the fervent heat of the sun. The Seraph, quick as a robin, was the first to pounce upon a large, but active dew-worm, which, he announced, was Ernestine.
We made an excited little group around the burdock, as The Seraph, flushed with pride, deposited her beside the lonely Charles. She glided toward him. She touched him. The effect was electrical. Charles Augustus, after one violent contortion, hurled himself from the burdock, and, before we could intercept him, disappeared into a bristling forest of grass blades.
"He's gone! He's gone!" wailed The Seraph. "He's wun away fwom her!"