“I’m better,” said the old gentleman, feebly; “better, better. But, Meg, you’ve got no money—how are you to live without money, Meg?”
“I have my pension, uncle.”
“A pension! what is a pension? It isn’t enough for anything. Even your poor aunt always allowed that.”
“It is enough to live on, Uncle—for Osy and me.”
“Osy, too,” he cried—“Osy, that I was just saying we must make a man of! You are very, very hard upon me, Meg. I never thought you would be hard upon me.” But already Sir Giles was wearied of his emotions, and was calming down.
“I hope there will be other children to make up to you, Uncle Giles.”
“What!” cried the old man, “is there a prospect of that? Are there thoughts of that already, Meg? Now, that is news, that is news! Now you make up for everything. Whew!” Sir Giles uttered a feeble whistle, and then he gave a feeble cheer. “Hurrah—then there may be an heir to the old house still. Hurrah! Hurrah?”
“Shall I say it for you, Uncle Giles?” said Osy. “Stand out of the way, Movver, and let Uncle Giles and me do it. Hurrah!” cried the little fellow, waving his hat upon Sir Giles’ stick. “Now, Uncle Giles, hip, hip, as the men do—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”
CHAPTER XXXII.
This was about Osy’s last performance in the house which was the only home he had ever known. He did not know what he was cheering for, but only that it was delightful to make a noise, and that his old uncle’s tremulous bass, soon lost in an access of sobs and laughter, was very funny. Osy would willingly have gone on for half an hour with this novel amusement; but it must be allowed that when he found the great boxes standing about in the room that had been his nursery, and began to watch the mysteries of the packing, his healthy little soul was disturbed by no trouble of parting, but jumped forward to the intoxicating thought of a journey and a new place with eager satisfaction and wonder. Everything was good to Osy, whether it was doing exactly the same thing to-day as he had done every day since he was born, or playing with something that he had never done or known before. He was much more perplexed to be kept upstairs after dinner, and not allowed to go down to the library, than he was by the removal from everything he had ever known. And when next morning he was driven away in the big carriage to the railway station, he was as ready to cheer for the delight of the outset as he had been, without knowing why, for Uncle Giles’ mysterious burst of self-gratulation. All things were joyful to the little new soul setting out upon the world.