They said that if grandpapa had lived longer he would most likely
have been made a Lord, and that then papa would have been the Honourable
and Reverend, but that grandpapa was now in heaven singing beautiful
hymns with grandmamma Allaby to Jesus Christ, who was very fond of them;
and that when Ernest was ill, his mamma had told him he need not be
afraid of dying for he would go straight to heaven, if he would only be
sorry for having done his lessons so badly and vexed his dear papa, and
if he would promise never, never to vex him any more; and that when he
got to heaven grandpapa and grandmamma Allaby would meet him, and he
would be always with them, and they would be very good to him and teach
him to sing ever such beautiful hymns, more beautiful by far than those
which he was now so fond of, etc., etc.; but he did not wish to die, and
was glad when he got better, for there were no kittens in heaven, and he
did not think there were cowslips to make cowslip tea with.
Their mother was plainly disappointed in them. "My children are none of
them geniuses, Mr Overton," she said to me at breakfast one morning.
"They have fair abilities, and, thanks to Theobald's tuition, they are
forward for their years, but they have nothing like genius: genius is a
thing apart from this, is it not?"
Of course I said it was "a thing quite apart from this," but if my
thoughts had been laid bare, they would have appeared as "Give me my
coffee immediately, ma'am, and don't talk nonsense.
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