They put him to bed, and for a fortnight the shadow of his sickness lay upon the house, and Black Sheep went to and fro unobserved. Papa had sent him some new books, and he was told to keep quiet. He retired into his own world and was perfectly happy. Even at night his felicity was unbroken. He could lie in bed and string himself tales of travel and adventure while Harry was downstairs.
"Uncle Harry's going to die," said Judy, who now lived almost entirely with Aunty Rosa.
"I'm very sorry," said Black Sheep soberly. "He told me that a long time ago."
Aunty Rosa heard the conversation. "Will nothing check your wicked tongue?" she said angrily. There were blue circles round her eyes.
Black Sheep retreated to the nursery and read "Cometh up as a Flower" with deep and uncomprehending interest. He had been forbidden to read it on account of its "sinfulness," but the bonds of the Universe were crumbling and Aunty Rosa was in great grief.
"I'm glad," said Black Sheep. "She's unhappy now. It wasn't a lie, though. I knew. He told me not to tell."
That night Black Sheep woke with a start. Harry was not in the room, and there was a sound of sobbing on the next floor. Then the voice of Uncle Harry, singing the song of the Battle of Navarino, cut through the darkness:—
"Our vanship was the Asia—
"The Albion and Genoa".
"He's getting well," thought Black Sheep, who knew the song through all its seventeen verses. But the blood froze at his little heart as he thought. The voice leapt an octave and rang shrill as a boatswain's pipe:—
"And next came on the lovely Rose,
"The Philomel, her fire-ship, closed,
"And the little Brisk was sore exposed
"That day at Navarino".
"That day at Navarino, Uncle Harry!" shouted Black Sheep, half wild with excitement and fear of he knew not what.
