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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