Frontispiece.

DRIFTED ASHORE
OR,
A CHILD WITHOUT A NAME

BY

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN

AUTHOR OF “LENORE ANNANDALE,” “THE MISTRESS OF LYDGATE,” “HER

HUSBAND’S HOME,” ETC.

“Thy will be done.”

────────

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES WHYMPER

────────

BOSTON:

BRADLEY & WOODRUFF

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER I.
THE FISHERMAN’S HUT.

THE fitful light of a showery April day was shining upon the level expanse of pale yellow sand, and upon the heaving plain of the sullen, angry sea. Great waves came racing in upon the beach, as though nothing would stay their impetuous course; and yet, as they approached that invisible limit against which was traced in unseen characters “Thus far and no farther,” their proud crests fell with a grand crash, and with a sullen and subdued sound, as of resentment and wrath, they drew back again into the seething waste of water they had for the moment seemed to leave behind.

When the dark clouds, heavy with rain, drifted over the sun’s pale disc and blotted out his watery smile, the face of the ocean looked very grim and black; but when the driving shower had passed, and the sunlight shone out clear and bright, turning to powdered gold dust the last of the retreating raindrops, then it seemed as if the great waves were laughing and rejoicing in their play; and even the dreary wastes of sand looked bright and almost beautiful, and the level country beyond, bare and bleak, and in many places almost treeless, put on an aspect of quiet, smiling contentment that might almost be taken for beauty.

A little boy had been sitting for many hours beneath the shelter of an old boat drawn up upon the shore. He was protected from the driving showers, and seemed quite contented with his position, for it was long since he had moved. He sat very still, nursing his knees with his clasped hands and resting his chin upon them, whilst he gazed unweariedly out over the tossing sea.

His coarse clothing and sun-browned face and hands proclaimed him a fisherman’s son. He looked about ten or twelve years old, and had a gentle, thoughtful, although not an intellectual cast of countenance. He did not appear very robust, despite his indifference to raindrops and chilly sea-breezes, and his placid inactivity betrayed a nature more prone to contemplation than to the toils of the life to which he was evidently born.

The sun began to set behind the sandhills, whose shadows slowly lengthened, whilst the thin, coarse grass which grew sparsely upon them turned golden in the radiance of departing day. The hoarse cries of the seabirds grew more frequent as they flew hither and thither, as if in search of their night’s quarters; and the little boy, rousing himself at last from his reverie, rose slowly from his sitting posture, stretched his cramped limbs, and began slowly making his way in a diagonal direction across the sandhills.

He had not proceeded far, before a wreath of pale blue smoke curling up from a little hollow indicated the presence of some dwelling-place; and a few more steps brought him to the door of a tiny cabin such as fisher-folk often inhabit.

The door stood seawards, and was as usual wide open, and upon the threshold sat the boy’s mother, busily engaged in mending a broken net.

She looked up as the child approached, and smiled. She had a round, motherly face, and her person, as well as the interior of her diminutive abode, was far more clean and neat than is usual with the dwellings of people of her class.

“Well, David,” she said, “where hast thou been all the day, honey?”

“Oh, down by the sea, mother,” he answered; and then, glancing quickly up into her face, he asked, “Be he woke up yet?”

The woman shook her head.

“Nay, nay, that he has not,” she answered. “Sometimes I be afeared he’ll never wake no more, for all the doctor says he will.”

A look of distress clouded David’s face.

“Oh, mother, don’t say that! He’s sure to wake up soon—the doctor must know best. May I go and look at un?”

“Ay, do so, child, if thee wants.”

And David stepped over his mother’s net and went into the inner room of the little low-roofed cabin.

Upon a low pallet-bed, beneath the little west window, through which the sun was now pouring a flood of golden light, lay a child about eight years old, a little boy, with dark soft hair lying in heavy waves across his forehead, and his white face very set and still, more as if in unconsciousness than in sleep. A glance at the delicate features of the child upon the bed, the blue veins showing through the transparent skin, the short upper lip, broad, intellectual brow, and small, well-shaped hands, showed plainly enough that he was no relation to the little brown-faced fisher lad who stood beside him, looking down at him with such interest.

What then had brought him to that humble abode? Who was he? and how came it that he lay there so still and motionless, untended save by the hard though motherly hands of the fisherman’s wife? Where were the boy’s own friends and kindred, who would be the most eager to be with him at such a time as this? Where was the mother, who would be first to fly to her darling, could she but see him lying there, on that hard pallet-bed, with no luxuries around him, and only strangers to minister to his need?

Where indeed? That was a question that entered many minds; but none gave voice to it, for all knew how vainly it would be asked. The little white-faced boy had been cast up by the stormy sea at the good fisherwife’s feet three days ago now, but not a single clue could be found by which to identify the child, or even the vessel from which he had been swept. Probably he was the only survivor of some ill-fated ship; probably he had been washed ashore alive only because a life-belt had been tied about him and had floated him to shore. Not a single plank or fragment of wreckage had been cast ashore with the little waif; and, unless he awoke to give an account of himself, it seemed likely that he too would have to lie in a nameless grave, as his companions now did beneath the waves of the pitiless ocean.

The doctor of the nearest village, who had been every day to see the boy, was still of the opinion that he would awake to consciousness in time. He detected traces of a heavy blow upon the head, that was evidently the cause of this prolonged unconsciousness, some concussion of the brain having probably taken place; but consciousness would return in time, and then they would be able to learn who the child was, and communicate with his friends.

Meantime, as the fisherwife’s “goodman” and big boys were out on a fishing excursion, there was room in the cabin for the little waif, and the dame’s motherly heart was filled with compassion for him, and prompted her to “do for him” as if he had been a child of her own.

Little David had taken from the first an immense interest in the nameless stranger. He thought he had never in his life seen any face half so beautiful as that of the white-faced child who lay motionless upon the bed, and he wove round him the web of romance that always seems so dear to children, especially when they are of an imaginative turn. He believed that he would prove to be at the very least a prince, although what a prince was David had only the vaguest of ideas.

He was never tired of standing beside the bed and looking at the white face upon the pillow, of watching his mother feed the unconscious child, and observing the face and movements of the doctor as he made his daily examination. He would have been pleased to stay all day in the quiet room, did not his mother insist on his going out for some hours every day; but the moment he felt at liberty to return he did so, and his first question was always the same—Had the little boy awoke yet?

And now, as he stood gazing down upon the little white face, suddenly his heart began to beat more quickly and his breath came thick and fast, for he saw that the long black lashes resting upon the waxen cheek were beginning to tremble and to slowly lift themselves up; and the next moment a pair of large, dark, soft eyes were looking straight into his. There was no meaning in that gaze, no surprise or inquiry. It was like the expression in the eyes of a little child just awakened from sleep, before any consciousness of its surroundings has dawned upon it; but David uttered a smothered cry that brought his mother hurrying up.

The great dark eyes turned upon her then, and she laid her hand upon David’s shoulder.

“Run for the doctor, quick, Davie boy!” she cried in an excited whisper. “Don’t thee linger by the way now. Fetch him as fast as thee can.”

No need to tell David not to linger. He was off like a shot almost before the words were spoken.

Fortune favored him that day. The doctor, whose experienced eye had that morning detected an approaching change in his little patient’s state, had already set out upon a second visit to the fisherman’s cottage, and David encountered him about a quarter of a mile away from his home.

The boy imparted his news with breathless eagerness. The doctor quickened his pace, and in a very few minutes he was standing beside the pallet-bed.

The sick child had turned his face away from the light and had closed his eyes again; but when the doctor laid a cool, firm hand upon his head, he started a little, and the dark eyes unclosed once more and fastened upon the doctor’s face.

“Well, my little friend, and how are you?” was the kindly inquiry; but the child only looked hard at the speaker and said nothing.

“Can you tell me your name, my boy?” was the next question; but still there was no reply.

“Perhaps he is a foreigner,” thought Dr. Lighton. “His eyes are dark enough;” and, summoning up first French and then Italian, he tried if he could make himself understood.

The child’s dark eyes had never left his face for an instant. Their glance was curiously intent, expressive of some feeling that it was impossible to define, full of a wistful perplexity that was akin to pain, which filled the young doctor with a sort of compassion he did not altogether understand.

Quite suddenly the child’s lips unclosed, and he said, very distinctly and softly,—

“I understood you before, thank you; but I can speak French too. Is this France?”

“No, we are in England, my little man. You are in your own country, and we will soon find your friends for you. What is your name?”

A look of distress and perplexity clouded the child’s face.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“Don’t know!” repeated Dr. Lighton, kindly. “Well, it will soon come back to you.”

There was a long silence in the little room. David almost held his breath, for fear he should disturb the current of the little prince’s thoughts. His mother shook her head sympathetically and murmured, “Poor lamb, poor lamb!” whilst the doctor’s eyes were fixed with keen professional scrutiny upon the child’s face.

The look of bewildered distress had deepened there. The dark eyes began to burn with strange intensity, and with a sudden little frightened cry the boy pressed his two hands upon his head.

“I can’t remember—I can’t remember! It’s all gone!”

Dr. Lighton laid his own hand upon those of his little patient.

“Never mind,” he said, in kindly, reassuring tones; “it will all come back in time. Do not try to think, or you will only hurt yourself. Take some of this milk, and go to sleep. When you wake up again you will remember all about it, I dare say.”

The child was docile and obedient, as well as exceedingly weak. He took what was offered from the doctor’s hands, and fell asleep shortly afterwards—the sleep of exhausted nature.

“Let him sleep; see that he is not disturbed,” said the doctor to the fisherman’s wife, as they stood in the outer room together. “He wants rest more than anything. He must not excite himself by talking.”

“He’ll remember all about hisself by and by, doctor?” questioned the good woman, compassionately. “I be main anxious to let his poor mother know he’s safe. She must be fretting sorely.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” answered the doctor, glancing over the sea, thinking to himself that the mother might in all probability be sleeping beneath the waves; “time and rest may work wonders for him; but don’t press him, don’t try to force his memory. Let it come of itself by degrees. I’ll look round early to-morrow.”

And with that the doctor took his departure, nodding a kindly adieu, and muttering, as he walked over the soft sandhills,—

“A curious case, a curious case. I wonder how it will end.”

The opinion of the kindly fisher-folk of the neighboring hamlet was that the child would be able to give an account of himself, as soon as he had recovered a little more strength, and grown used to his surroundings; but day by day passed by, strength and spirit both began to revive, and still the little boy remained utterly silent as to his past history, and when the doctor questioned him (he had forbidden any one else to do so) as to his name, his parentage, his antecedents, a look of bewildered distress would cross his face, he would press his hands upon his head, and say,—

“I can’t remember. It’s all gone. Oh, I don’t know anything about it!”

Dr. Lighton never pressed him. He always turned the talk, with a smile or a kind word; but as day by day passed on, and still no memory returned, he began to wonder how it would all end, and how long a time must elapse before the shaken faculties could reassert themselves.

The boy grew better and stronger every day. He played with David unweariedly for many hours upon the bed, and when he was able to get up and be dressed in some of the elder boy’s clothes,—he had been washed ashore in a little nightdress and a rough blue pilot coat,—they wandered out upon the sandhills together, and enjoyed themselves after a peculiar fashion of their own.

They were a very quiet pair, but not on that account unhappy. David was in a state of quiet and ecstatic delight. It was enough for him to be with the stranger, to watch his every movement, wait upon him, talk to him, love him as only children can love their own kind, and to bask, as it were, in the light of his countenance.

The little new boy was very silent and quiet. He answered when he was spoken to, but seldom volunteered a remark. His eyes were always dreamy, and wore a look of wistful bewilderment and sorrow that was very expressive of the confused state of his mind. He would sit for hours gazing over the sea, with a strangely rapt expression of countenance, and when David spoke to him he would start and flush as if his thoughts had been very far away.

He seemed to cling, in an abstract way, to the gentle-faced boy who watched him with such undivided interest and devotion; but so far the conversation had been limited to a very few remarks, and even the games they played together were of a peculiarly silent description.

The boy had a marked preference for the sandhills and the shore, and an increasing distaste for the low cabin that somewhat distressed David and his good mother.

This distaste was not expressed in words, but was manifested in a marked reluctance to come in, in an intense eagerness to get out, and in a quiet determination not to eat his food until he had carried it into the purer air without.

The food, too, as soon as he had advanced beyond the “slop stage,” seemed very unpalatable to him. He was too thoroughly the little gentleman to complain, but it was plain that he would never thrive on such coarse fare; and the doctor was once more appealed to.

He looked with a smile at the slight and graceful child, as he sat beside David on the sandhills, and said,—

“It is plain something must be done, Mrs. Wickham; he cannot go on much longer like this. You have done your share, and more. I must see to matters myself, I think.”

CHAPTER II.
THE SQUIRE’S HALL.

THE Squire sat in his library, surrounded by his books and papers; and Dr. Lighton sat opposite to him in earnest conversation. The Manor House of Arlingham was a fine old mediæval house, picturesque both without and within. It was built of red sandstone, and its irregular outline, mullioned windows, and an air of peaceful antiquity, delighted all lovers of bygone days and their relics, whilst the interior of the old house was just what would be expected from the appearance it presented from without. The rooms were low, rather dim and dark, irregular in shape, yet delightfully cosey and comfortable. The stairs were of polished oak, as were the floor and walls of the panelled hall. There was nothing new in that house, nothing bright, staring, or incongruous. The stained glass windows admitted a rich, dusky light, and the peculiar stillness and peaceful hush that often rests upon old houses whence all young life has fled pervaded all the rooms and corridors of the Manor House at Arlingham to an unusual extent, and no one could step within the shadows of the hall without being instantly conscious that they had entered a place whose life was rather a memory of the past than an active present.

The Squire had lost his wife and all his children many years before. Arlingham still spoke with bated breath of that terrible year when cholera visited them, and, whilst the Squire and his lady were doing all that money and skill and benevolence could accomplish to succor their poorer neighbors, the awful visitor entered their own doors, and within a week the sweet lady all had learned to love was lying dead, as well as her two eldest boys—fine lads, the pride of Arlingham; and before the death angel had stayed his hand, mother and five children—all her little ones—lay sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and the Squire, a hale man of but forty summers, was left quite alone in his desolated home.

In one week his hair, which had been black as the raven’s wing, had turned as white as the driven snow; but otherwise no great outward change had fallen upon the Squire, and he had taken up the duties of his position with a strong hand and resolute will, only betraying the depth of his wound by his increasing distaste for any kind of society save that of his own people, with whom his duties brought him in contact, and his increasing shrinking from partaking in any of the amusements and social relaxations common to those of his position and standing.

It was fifteen years now since the date of the fatal year that had cost him so terribly dear,—fifteen years, and yet the memory of his loss was still green in his heart, and, although he never spoke of it, his servants, and indeed all Arlingham, knew that he had not forgotten, and never would forget. He had lived his life alone, true to the memory of those he had loved, and he would live it alone to the end.

He had many friends, but few intimates. He was universally liked and respected in the county, but distances were long, his habits those of a recluse, and visitors were rare at the Manor House. Young Mr. Lighton, who had lately settled in the neighborhood, was a distant connection of the Squire’s, and partly perhaps on that account, partly from a similarity in some of their tastes, partly because the elderly man was sincerely kind-hearted and knew that the place was very dull and quiet, the young physician had been made more welcome at the Manor House than any one else had been for many long years; and he had grown to understand thoroughly the nature and character of the white-headed, keen-eyed Squire.

He often dropped in after dinner for a little chat, as he had done on this occasion.

The library was a very comfortable room, with its walls warmly lined with books, its two great oriel windows, and the wide hearth, where in the evenings, for the greater part of the year, the great logs blazed cheerily, sending out showers of sparks that were whirled upwards into the dark cavern of the huge, old-fashioned chimney.

Dr. Lighton liked this room, with its flickering lights and shadows, and its central object of interest, the stalwart figure of the Squire, with his snow-white head, his fine, handsome face stamped with the indelible lines of a great sorrow heroically borne, and his commanding air that had lost but little of its youthful strength and firmness, notwithstanding the years that had rolled over his head.

The young physician enjoyed his evening talks with the Squire as much as any part of his day’s work, but on this particular occasion his thoughts were less engrossed by his host than was usual, for he had another more pressing matter on his mind.

“Undoubtedly a very interesting case, I should say; and a remarkable one, too,” observed the Squire, after hearing the doctor’s story. “What do you imagine will be the end of it?”

“The end, if the child is left in his present surroundings, will be that he will pine away and die,” answered the young man, with a little impetuosity. “It is plain as daylight that he is a gentleman’s son, and has been reared up in every luxury. Every day proves more clearly how utterly unfitted he is for his life; and of course the poor woman cannot keep him always. The money you kindly sent down has kept her so far from feeling any loss by her goodness to the child; but she expects her husband and sons home shortly, and then she must turn out the little stranger. The cabin is barely large enough for the family as it is; besides, it would be unreasonable to expect her to adopt the little waif. She is not in a position to do it.”

“Decidedly not. What is to become of the child? I suppose the parish will be responsible for him.”

Dr. Lighton looked quickly at the impassive face of his interlocutor.

“It would be absurd to send a boy like that to the workhouse,” he said, in the same slightly impetuous manner. “He is a gentleman’s son, every inch of him. His voice, his manner, his appearance, all show it. Any day he may be able to recall the past,—it may all come back like a flash, although I admit that the process may be much more tedious,—and it would be sheer cruelty to have turned the child into a pauper and made him rough it with a lot of lads no more like himself than chalk is like cheese. If you were only to see the child, Squire, you would understand my meaning.”

The Squire turned his gaze full upon the young doctor’s face.

“And why do you tell all this to me? You have some reason. What is it?”

Dr. Lighton knew by the expression of the Squire’s face that the time had come to speak out and say exactly what he did mean.

“I will tell you,” he said, frankly; “you may think I am taking an unwarrantable liberty, but, if so, I can only crave your pardon. You are the great man of the place here, the Squire, and the friend of the people. A little waif has been cast up almost at your doors, and, until he is able to remember his past history and assist in his own identification, somebody must in common humanity give him a home and look after him a little. He is obviously of gentle birth, and wants the gentle treatment to which he has been used. You are the only wealthy man in the place, the only friend to whom I can plead my cause, for you know what Lady Arbuthnot is like. I thought you might be willing to take an interest in the boy, to let him come here for a time perhaps, and give him a temporary asylum until his own home could be found. Rather than he should go to the parish, I would take him myself; but a bachelor in small lodgings is at a great disadvantage; whereas this house is large, and the staff of servants in all ways adequate to the wants of more than a solitary—”

A quick spasm of pain contracted the Squire’s face. The young man saw it and paused.

“I hope I have not taken an unwarrantable liberty in making the suggestion,” he said.

A few minutes of silence ensued before there was any answer.

“You have surprised me a little, I admit,” answered the Squire; “but there is force in what you say. I believe I am the right person to see after this waif. Legally, of course, there is no claim upon me; but I admit the moral claim.”

Dr. Lighton’s eyes brightened.

“You are very good to say so.”

“Not at all. I do not profess I want the child here; I shall not see much of him if he comes. I have no disposition to look at the case sentimentally; but you appeal to my sense of justice and hospitality. A small atom of humanity has been cast up at our doors, and I, as the Squire of the place, admit that my door is the one that should open to him.”

“I confess I hoped you might see it in that light,” admitted Dr. Lighton. “I trust you will not consider I have been intrusive in saying so much.”

“Not at all. You have only done your duty promptly, whilst I have been inclined to be slack in the performance of mine. You consider it probable that the boy’s memory will return shortly?”

“I should be quite inclined to think so, and all the sooner for a return to civilized life. Some chord can hardly fail to be struck, and at any moment a flash of memory might bring the whole past back. Nobody can pronounce a decided opinion in such cases; but my own feeling is that such a state of mind will only prove a temporary phase, and that he will soon be able to give a rational account of himself.”

“Very good,” returned the Squire; “the sooner the better for me; but until that time comes he shall have a home here. I will send for him to-morrow.”

“You are very good,” answered the young man; “I feel personally grateful.”

The Squire smiled a little.

“You seem to take an interest in the child.”

“I do. The case is interesting professionally for one thing, and there is undoubtedly something interesting in the boy himself, as you will see for yourself when he comes.”

The Squire’s face had put on an expression not easy to read.

“I shall hardly be likely to see much of him myself,” he said, with an odd intonation in his voice. “Children are not in my line.”

And then he turned to his table, leaned one elbow upon it and his head on his hand, turning over some papers with an air of deep abstraction.

Dr. Lighton knew by instinct that he was a good deal moved, little as he betrayed it, by the revival of some memories of the past. He judged it advisable to take his departure, and he did so at once, the Squire, who still appeared abstracted and unlike himself, offering no remonstrance to this early move. Indeed, he hardly seemed to notice his guest’s departure, and returned his farewell with unusual brevity.

When he found himself alone, he rose from his seat and began pacing the room slowly backwards and forwards with measured tread.

Presently he paused, and rang the bell with a certain force and decision of touch, and when the gray-haired butler appeared in answer to the summons he merely said, briefly,—

“Send Mrs. Pritchard to me.”

Mrs. Pritchard was the housekeeper now. She had been nurse to the children in bygone days, and had served in the family ever since she was a slim girl of fifteen. She was a stout, buxom woman now, with a pleasant face and a respectful manner. Her master trusted her implicitly, and she never betrayed his trust.

“Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, quietly, “be good enough to be seated for a few minutes.”

The Squire was sitting himself now in his customary chair. Mrs. Pritchard did as she was bid, and sat down facing him.

“No doubt you have heard, Mrs. Pritchard, of the little boy at the fisherman’s cottage, who was washed up after the storm the other day, and can give no account of himself?”

“Ay, sir, I have, poor lamb! I saw him on the shore the other day with David. My heart fairly ached for him, that it did.”

The Squire smiled a little.

“Your heart was always tender, Mrs. Pritchard. Well, what did you think of the child?”

“A little gentleman born, if ever there was one,” answered the worthy housekeeper, with some warmth. “He was dressed just like the other boy, in old patched clothes, but the difference between them! Why, the little one was on his feet almost before he knew I was speaking to them, and took off his cap as pretty as could be, and answered so gentle, and quite like as if he’d been used to company all his life. Poor lamb, it isn’t fitting he should stay in such a place. The look in his eyes fairly haunts me, it does. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Well, Mrs. Pritchard, I have been hearing the same story from other quarters. What should you say to having him here to take care of, until he can tell us where his own home is?”

The housekeeper’s face brightened visibly.

“Do you really mean it, sir?”

“Certainly. Dr. Lighton has spoken upon the subject, and I agree with him in thinking that this house should be the one to shelter him until we can discover something about him. Are you prepared to put up with the trouble of having a child about the place for a few weeks?”

“Oh, sir,” cried the good woman, clasping her hands together in a sudden outbreak of feeling, “if there is one thing would make me happier than another, it would be to have a child to tend and care for again!”

The Squire turned his face slightly away; he took out his keys and began fumbling in the drawer of the table before him.

“Very good, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said at length, after rather a long pause, and speaking with manifest effort. “Then you had better make all necessary arrangements, and get the nurseries ready for him by to-morrow. He had better live there entirely, except when he is out of doors. You will arrange all that; but understand that I do not care about seeing him all over the house.”

“Yes, sir, I will take care of that,” answered Mrs. Pritchard, with ready comprehension.

“And you must get him whatever he wants in the way of clothes,” continued the Squire, handing across a crisp bank-note. “You had better have the dog-cart, and get William to drive you both in to Twing to-morrow morning. Buy whatever is needful for the present, and order what you cannot get at once. The child must look as he should whilst he stays under my roof.”

Mrs. Pritchard rose and curtsied and took the money held out.

“Thank you, sir,” she said; “I will see that your wishes are carried out to the best of my powers.”

She withdrew, and the Squire was left alone with his books and his dying fire. The night was merging into day before he roused himself from the reverie into which he had sunk, and extinguished the lamp that had grown pale in the feeble glimmer of coming dawn.

CHAPTER III.
A LITTLE INTRUDER.

THE Squire’s study had a westerly aspect and as evening drew on the sunset rays streamed into the quaint, quiet room and flooded it with golden light. The old calf-bound books upon the long rows of shelves took all manner of rich hues, and the picture over the fireplace, representing a beautiful woman with two fair children beside her, seemed to awake to a new and smiling life.

The Squire had been a little less self-possessed than usual upon this particular day. Work seemed irksome to him. He had not been able to give undivided attention to his bailiff’s accounts of the farm and stock, and shortly after he had finished his lunch he ordered his horse and set out for a ride over the estate, feeling that air and exercise would be more congenial to him in his present mood than any sedentary work could be. He did not examine into his state of mind, nor ask himself why it was that he was disturbed and unlike himself; but he recognized that such was the case, and accepted it without comment or question.

He returned home as the sun was slowly sinking in the west, and went straight to his study as usual, but when he stood upon the threshold he stopped suddenly short and stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed with intent scrutiny upon something in the room that appeared to give him the keenest surprise.

Nothing very remarkable to other eyes was presented by the spectacle of that quiet room bathed in the golden sunset, only upon the cushioned seat of the great oriel window sat a little boy with a delicate-featured, pale face and a pair of wistful dark eyes.

The child leaned his head against the window and gazed intently out upon the western sky, painted with all the gorgeous hues of sunset; and he was evidently entirely unconscious of his present surroundings or that his solitude had been invaded.

The Squire stood for some minutes gazing fixedly at the little intruder. A frown had quickly clouded his face when his eyes had first fallen upon the childish figure; but as he stood there in the shadow of the doorway, and noticed the perplexed and settled sadness of the boy’s expression and the hungry, unsatisfied longing in his earnest gaze, the frown slowly faded and a more gentle look came into the weather-beaten face. Still, discipline was discipline, and orders were orders; the child had no right to be there, and the Squire was too much the master in his own house not to feel a passing sense of displeasure at this direct infringement of his commands.

He walked forward into the room and settled himself in his usual chair, without taking the least notice of the child perched up in the window-seat.

Minutes flew by, and still the silence remained unbroken. The Squire turned over his papers, but he did not master their contents in his usual rapid way. His ears were keenly alive to the faint sounds that proceeded from the window behind him, and an impatient wish that Mrs. Pritchard would come and claim her little charge rose more than once in his mind.

This ignoring of the child’s presence in the room seemed even to himself strained and unnatural; and yet he had no business to be there at all, and the Squire knew that it would never do to encourage such a breach of discipline.

Suddenly he was aware that a small soft hand was laid upon his own, and a sweet little voice said, in accents of eager, tremulous surprise,—

“Grandpapa!”

The Squire turned quickly in his chair to meet the pleading, earnest gaze of those liquid brown eyes fixed upon him with an almost pathetic intensity.

“Grandpapa!” said the child again, but this time with more of distressed uncertainty in his tone, and the delicate little lips began to quiver as the boy glanced up into the unresponsive face before him.

“Why do you call me that, little boy?” asked the Squire, gravely.

The child’s hand was pressed to his forehead, his eyes brightened unnaturally.

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly, and a tear gathered upon the long lashes.

After all, the Squire was a father, and, although that very fact made the sight of the boy painful to him, he was not on that account hard-hearted, nor could he look with an unmoved countenance upon the distress of a little child.

He drew the little fellow gently between his knees, and it seemed as if there was something in the fatherly touch that went home to the heart of the lonely child in some overpowering way, for he suddenly laid his head against the Squire’s shoulder and burst into convulsive weeping.

There was something very touching in the nameless sorrow of the little lonely child, who was so utterly forsaken in the great world, without home or kindred or even a name to call his own. His partial realization of his anomalous position gave a pathos to his distress that raised it above the level of ordinary childish grief.

The Squire could have found it in his heart to wish that he had not been the recipient of this burst of sorrow, but he could not for a moment refuse to comfort the child, who clung to him as to a natural protector. He put his arm round the sobbing boy, and by and by said, in kindly accents,—

“There, there, my little man, there, there! Do not cry so bitterly. What is it all about? Let us see if something can’t be done to make it better.”

The tone rather than the words seemed to soothe the agitated boy; his sobs were slowly checked, and, although he did not lift his head from its resting-place upon the broad shoulder, the little frame ceased to tremble so convulsively and gradually became still.

When the child’s tears seemed fairly conquered, the Squire put him a little farther away and looked at him steadily, with an intent expression upon his fine, commanding face.

The little boy looked up timidly, but he did not seem alarmed by the glance he encountered. Children have a marvellous instinct in distinguishing between the sternness of an inflexible yet just and kindly nature and that of harshness and tyranny.

His wistful glance travelled upwards till it rested upon the snow-white hair that gave to the Squire a more venerable appearance than his years indicated, and again a little smile shone out from the sad eyes, and the same word sprang in a whisper to the lips that quivered yet with the past fit of weeping,—

“Grandpapa!”

“So that is to be your name for me, is it?” questioned the Squire, kindly. “Very well, it will do as well as any other. And what am I to call you?”

The child’s hand went up to his head.

“I don’t know,” he said, pitifully.

“Well, then, I must think of something for myself. You have given me a name, so I must give you one. What shall it be, I wonder? Shall we say Bertie? That gives us a certain license, you see, and does not commit us to anything very definite, eh, Bertie?”

The child smiled a little uncertain, tearful smile. The name did not appear to arouse any associations; but still it was something to have a name again.

“And now, Bertie, tell me why it was you came here at all? Where is Mrs. Pritchard?”

“She is having her tea. She left me in the nursery, and said she should soon be back. I came down-stairs to go into the garden, and then I saw the door open, and the books, and I came in to look. I like a library; I always used”—but here the look of bewilderment swept over the boy’s face again, and he concluded, confusedly, “I mean, nobody was there, and it all looked nice and quiet, and so I came in and sat there, and then you came back, and I thought—”

“Never mind, never mind what you thought,” interposed the Squire, hastily, for the look in the child’s eyes was painfully bewildered and strained. “Tell me if you know who I am.”

“You are the Squire,” answered Bertie, promptly, looking more natural and childlike again. “I saw you ride out on your big brown horse to-day; and yesterday I saw you walking in the garden and telling the men what to do. Mrs. Pritchard says that all this big house belongs to you. Are you ever lonely living here all by yourself?”

The Squire looked down into the child’s upturned face, and a curious shade passed over his own.

“What do you know about being lonely?” he asked, in an odd, muffled voice.

Bertie put his hand over his eyes; and then, after a moment’s pause, looked up again smiling.

“I was lonely down by the sea with David. He was very kind, and I liked him, and so was his mother. But I was lonely with them. It isn’t half so lonely here with you.”

“You are not lonely, then, with Mrs. Pritchard in the nursery, I suppose?”

Bertie hesitated.

“Mrs. Pritchard is very kind,” he said, with a little courtly air that was almost amusing,—“very kind indeed; but, somehow, this feels more natural, you know.”

The Squire, as he found the child grew more composed and quiet, began to return to his former state of mind as regarded his position in the house.

“But you must understand, Bertie, that the nursery is your room, and that this is mine. You must not come here without leave.”

The child’s face put on a look of distress and perplexity.

“Isn’t this a library!” he said.

“Yes; this is my library.”

“I always used to sit in the library when I wanted to,” he said, appealingly. “I never did any harm. I like the smell of the books, you know. Ours used to smell just the same.”

“Yours?” interrogated the Squire, hoping to elicit some further intelligence.

“Grandpapa’s,” was the prompt response; but there Bertie stuck fast. The moment he tried to recollect anything, everything fled away in painful confusion; reminiscences sprang unconsciously to his lips, but eluded him pitilessly the moment he tried to arrange his ideas and seize upon a memory of the past. The tears again stood in his eyes, and he put up his hands, crying piteously,—

“Oh, why can’t I remember? Why does it all run away so fast?”

The Squire had to turn comforter again.

“Never mind, little chap, it will all come back of itself some day. Don’t you worry your head over it; that will make matters worse instead of better. Ah! and here comes Mrs. Pritchard, looking for her lost lamb. She will wonder what has brought you here.”

Mrs. Pritchard’s face expressed a good deal of alarm and confusion as she appeared in the doorway, guided there by the sound of voices.

“Indeed, sir, but I’m truly sorry!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea the child had left the nurseries. I truly am most—”

“Never mind, never mind, Mrs. Pritchard,” answered the Squire, quietly. “Children will stray, and I do not expect you to alter your usual routine on his account. Take him away now; but if he is a good boy, you may dress him and send him down to dessert. He will be all the better for a little more change, and will have less time to think.”

Mrs. Pritchard looked deeply gratified, and thanked the Squire as if he had been conferring some personal favor upon herself.

“We have settled upon a name for him, Mrs. Pritchard,” continued the Squire. “He is to be Master Bertie, until we know any better. He will be wanting his tea now; you had better take him away.”

Bertie followed the housekeeper obediently, and the Squire was left alone to his own meditations, and as he turned to his papers he sighed once or twice.

“Poor little fellow!” he said; “poor little fellow! Well, I suppose it will all come right some day soon. Very odd turn of affairs altogether.”

Meantime Bertie was silently discussing his substantial nursery tea, whilst Mrs. Pritchard sat by, busy with her needle.

By and by the little boy spoke.

“Was it naughty of me to go into grandpapa’s library, Mrs. Pritchard?”

The good woman started visibly.

“The Squire’s library, you mean, dearie?”

“Yes, I know he’s the Squire; but he seems like grandpapa, you know; and he said I had found a name for him, and then he found one for me. Grandpapa is a nicer name than Squire, you know. I don’t think I ever knew a squire before.”

“He did not mind you calling him so? Well, to be sure, he is always kind and good. But, Master Bertie dear, you must not go there without leave. It’s only the nurseries that belong to you.”

Bertie looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said nothing. The look upon his face touched his kind friend, and she added, reassuringly—,

“It isn’t anything as has vexed him with you, dearie, but he’s had a deal of trouble has the Squire, and there’s some things as it hurts him to talk of, and one of them is children.”

Bertie’s eyes were very wide open now, brimful of eager intelligence.

“I don’t understand, please, Mrs. Pritchard. Why do children hurt him?”

“Because, dearie, he once had five little ones of his own; and there came a dreadful sickness here one year, and they all five died within a fortnight; and the Squire has never been the same man since, and no child has ever set foot inside the house, till you came three days ago.”

Bertie’s gaze was very intent.

“Did they all die?”

“Ay, that they did, and the mother too; and he was left all alone.”

Bertie looked dreamily out of the window.

“What is dying?” he asked.

Mrs. Pritchard hesitated how to reply; and Bertie gave the answer to his own question.

“Isn’t it when God takes people away with Him that people say they are dead?”

The ready tears had started to Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes.

“Ay, indeed ’tis so, Master Bertie dear; but we’re sadly given to forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Bertie, slowly, “but I can’t remember who told me.” He looked hard at Mrs. Pritchard and asked, earnestly, “Do you think God knows all about me?”

“Ay, my dearie, I suppose He knows everything.”

“I wish He would let me remember,” said the child, wistfully. “Do you think He will?”

“Yes, dearie, I do. He is very good to us, for all He sends us trouble sometimes. You can ask Him, you know, when you say your prayers to-night; you can ask Him any time.”

Bertie’s hand was pressed to his head, his eyes glowed strangely.

“Somebody said—” He paused, and then went on again, “Somebody said that we must not choose ourselves, only ask God to choose for us. I can’t remember just what it was. But it was like Jesus, you know, in the garden, when He said “Thy will be done,” to everything. I must say “Thy will be done” too, mustn’t I, about remembering things again? I know they said that—I can’t have made it up.”

He was growing distressed, as he so easily did when the vanished memory eluded his grasp; but Mrs. Pritchard took him into her motherly embrace and soothed and quieted him. Very soon the child was himself again, and looked at her with a smile.

“I’ve got ‘Our Father’ left still, you see, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, with a sort of quaint gravity that was very touching in its way. “He is my Father, isn’t He? even if I’m quite lost, He knows where I am, and He takes care of me, I’m sure. I don’t think He’ll ever quite forget me, and p’raps He’ll let me find my real home some day; but I’ll always say ‘Thy will be done’ about it.” Then, looking quickly up into the kind face above him, he asked, “Perhaps grandpapa will explain it all and help me. He had to say ‘Thy will be done’ when God took his little children away, and I suppose that was very hard.”

CHAPTER IV.
QUEENIE’S HOME.

“I DO hate term-time!” cried Queenie, stamping her little foot and looking altogether fierce and out of sorts. “I hate all the boys to be away! Why do boys have to go to school? I’m sure they don’t learn so very much; I believe I know more than most of them. Boys ought either to stay at home or else take their sisters to school with them.”

And Queenie, who was standing in the middle of her big nursery surrounded by piles of books and toys, looked triumphantly round her, as if she had uttered a very fine sentiment indeed. Her nurse, who was quietly working by the window, smiled a little at this outbreak.

“Perhaps young gentlemen might not care about taking their sisters with them,” she suggested, mildly; but Queenie tossed her head with a supercilious air.

“My brothers always like to have me with them,” she answered. “It’s perfectly horrid when they all go away. Nothing is any fun without boys.”

“You won’t think so long, Miss Queenie. It’s only just at first that it seems dull-like.”

Queenie stamped her foot. I am afraid she often did so, being a very excitable young lady, and without much control over herself.

“It isn’t!” she cried, angrily; “it’s all the time, every bit of it—a whole horrid three months nearly! I hate people who try and pretend things aren’t what they are. It’s very stupid and very unkind. You know I’m always miserable when the boys are away, and it’s not a bit of good pretending I’m not!”

Queenie turned defiantly upon her nurse as she made this challenge; but the wise woman, knowing well the disposition of her little mistress, held her peace.

Queenie sat down suddenly in the middle of her toys and stared about her disconsolately.

“It is horrid to live in a place where there isn’t a single boy.”

“There is a boy now at the Manor House,” remarked the nurse, threading her needle afresh.

Queenie looked up, all interest and vivacity.

“A boy at the Manor House!” she repeated. “Who is he? I didn’t know the Squire had any boys.”

“Neither he has, Miss Queenie. Poor man, he lost them all. The little boy he has with him now is the one, you know, who drifted ashore after the last storm, who doesn’t know who he is nor where he came from, poor little fellow.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

“He can’t remember; he’s forgotten it all. His head was hurt somehow, and when he got better he’d forgotten everything he knew about himself.”

“How funny!” cried Queenie. “I wonder what it feels like to forget everything like that.”

The nurse shook her head, and Queenie went on with her own train of thought.

“I think it would be rather nice to forget everything and begin again quite fresh. It would be so funny. I should like to forget all my lessons, and to go on forgetting them, so that by and by people would say it was no good teaching me any more, and I should do just as I liked all day.”

“You would soon be very glad to go back to your lessons again, Miss Queenie,” answered the nurse, quietly. “There is nothing in the world so dull as having no regular employment.”

This wise remark did not provoke any ridicule from Queenie at this moment, as it would usually have done. She had other things to think of now.

“Why has the little boy gone to the Manor House?” she asked.

“I suppose the Squire asked him there. You see he has no friends to take care of him—at least he cannot find them yet. The Squire is a very kind man.”

“Mamma doesn’t like him,” remarked Queenie. “She tells people he is very unsociable, and does not treat her with proper respect. I think he looks a nice old man. I met him once when I was out on my pony, and had run away from William and lost him. He picked up my whip for me because I’d dropped it, and when I thanked him, he smiled and looked quite kind, though in church he is always so grave and solemn. But I can’t think why he should take a little fisherman’s boy to live in his house.”

The nurse smiled a little.

“Who told you he was a fisherman’s boy, Miss Queenie?”

Queenie tossed her little curly head with the air of one who half resents such a question.

“Why, of course he is! everybody knows that. He lived ever so many days in that dirty little hut with the Wickhams. I saw him one day on the sands, playing with David. Only quite a common boy could possibly think of doing that!”

The nurse smiled again.

“Well, Miss Queenie, however that may be, there are other opinions about the little boy. Anyway, he is living at the Manor House now, and Mrs. Pritchard does not think it beneath her to wait upon him,—fisherman’s boy or no.”

Queenie listened with interest to this account of the little stranger; but she would not admit that she could possibly be mistaken in her estimate of him.

“I’ve seen him,” she said; “he was dressed in horrid old clothes. I’m quite sure he can’t be a gentleman’s son. It’s quite ridiculous!”

“And I suppose, Miss Queenie, if you happened to get lost some day, and were found by poor people, and dressed in poor clothes, you would not be a gentleman’s little daughter any longer?”

Queenie flushed indignantly, and drew up her little head.

“I am Sir Walter Arbuthnot’s only daughter,” she said, in her most stately way. “Nothing that could happen could make any difference to that.”

Nurse smiled again.

“Oh, I thought it was all a matter of clothes.”

Queenie made no reply. She began to see that there was something more than that to be taken into consideration; but she was not going to make any rash admissions to her nurse, whose ideas upon some subjects did not at all commend themselves to the little lady.

But she thought a good deal about the little boy who had come to the Manor House, and wove several romances about him. She wondered whether she would ever make his acquaintance, what he would be like if she did, and whether he would prove worthy of the notice she half resolved she would take of him should the opportunity present itself.

Queenie, as will be seen from what has gone before, was a little lady with a great idea of her own importance. It was not altogether her own fault that she had this exalted opinion of herself. She was an only daughter, and had been spoiled ever since she was born. The youngest of the family and the only girl, it was no wonder she had been made much of, and her beauty, her self-will, and her quickness all helped to increase the dangers and difficulties of the position. Her father gave way to her whims in everything, whenever she appealed to him, for he was much entertained by her vivacity and delighted in her fearlessness and high spirit. He secretly countenanced those acts of insubordination and defiance of authority that shocked Lady Arbuthnot’s sense of propriety, and cared nothing at all about her “tomboy tricks” so long as she was always ready to amuse him by her sharp sayings when she came in to dessert or was sent for into the drawing-room. The mother, on the other hand, disliked all this tendency to frolic and careless deportment, and sedulously cultivated what she termed the graceful side of her little daughter’s character. In plain words, she tried hard to instill a great deal of vanity and foolish pride into Queenie’s youthful mind, and had it not been for the child’s healthy love for play and natural freedom from petty follies of this kind, she would in all probability have become before this time a little woman of fashion instead of a happy, careless child.

As it was, in spite of many drawbacks and many dangers, the child was a child still,—proud, self-willed, and passionate, it is true, yet on the whole generous, well-disposed and merry, satisfied with herself and with most things about her. She was not spoiled yet, whatever she might be later, and she undoubtedly owed much to the kindly and judicious treatment of her nurse.

Queenie thought a good deal more of her nurse’s opinion than she was at all aware of; and as nurse had said that the little boy who had been received at the Manor House was a gentleman’s son—or seemed so—the small lady at the Court began to think a good deal about him, and to wonder if she should ever be allowed to make his acquaintance.

Queenie’s parents had not lived for more than a year at the Court, and they hardly knew the Squire at all. He did not pay calls in a general way, and although he had broken through his habitual seclusion to pay his respects to Lady Arbuthnot on her first arrival there, he had not repeated the visit, and she had taken offence at what she considered a lack of proper respect. They were very near neighbors, and yet almost strangers. Sir Walter would say in his careless fashion that the old Squire was a good fellow enough, only growing very rusty with being so shut up in his dismal house all alone; but no intercourse existed between the neighbors, and Lady Arbuthnot took somewhat an exaggerated view of the old man’s unsociable disposition. A vain woman in a small neighborhood, with little to occupy her thoughts, is likely to get into a silly way of making much out of little, and her annoyance with the Squire was out of all proportion to the supposed affront.

Queenie knew a great deal more of her mother’s opinions than was at all advisable; and so she felt considerable doubt as to whether any friendship would be permitted between her and the little strange boy who had drifted ashore by the storm. Still she was not a child who was easily daunted by opposition, and she was quite convinced in her own mind that, if she liked the looks of the new-comer, she would soon find a way of making his acquaintance.

When Sunday came round, Queenie was conscious of a little sense of excitement as she allowed herself to be dressed for church. She knew that the Squire was never absent from the great square pew just opposite their own, and that, if the little boy were there with him, she could not fail to have an excellent view of him.

Lady Arbuthnot was not very well that day, so that Queenie would have the satisfaction of going alone with her father, which always pleased her very much, for she could chatter to him the whole time during the double walk, sit in her mother’s corner at church and use her beautiful velvet-bound books. The little girl always stood upon the high footstool during such parts of the service as it was possible, and indulged secret hopes that strangers in the church would take her to be Lady Arbuthnot.

To-day she had herself dressed in excellent time, and coaxed her father into his light overcoat quite five minutes before he was disposed to start, in order to be sure to be in time to see the Squire’s entrance.

Sir Walter was very good-tempered and very fond of his little daughter. Queenie looked particularly bright and pretty to-day, her blue eyes beaming with excitement and pleasure, her golden curls straying out from beneath the brim of her little velvet cap, and her pretty spring dress, warm yet light, all fresh from the hands of careful nurse. She was a dainty little maiden as regarded her clothes, despite her active “tomboy” nature, and Sir Walter was pleased to take her hand in his and listen to her merry chatter as they walked through the copse and over the fields together.

She did not speak of the thought uppermost in her head. Some instinct of caution sealed her lips until her own mind should be made up on the subject. She must see the little boy herself before she could possibly tell whether she wished to take any step towards forming his acquaintance. She was not at all sure, in spite of nurse’s vague hints, that he would prove to be worthy of the honor she proposed to extend to him in bestowing upon him her friendship.

The Squire had not yet arrived when the Arbuthnots took their places. So far so good. Queenie settled herself with dignity in her seat, and prepared to wait for him.

She had not to wait long; the Squire was always in excellent time, and very soon she saw the familiar white head passing in through the open door.

Was he alone? No, surely not! In another moment all doubt was at an end. He had entered, leading by the hand a little boy in a suit of black velvet, and in another moment or two the children were sitting quietly in their places immediately facing one another.

Queenie’s gaze immediately fastened upon the little boy’s face, and fixed itself there with the unconscious interest and frankness only possible in childhood.

“How pretty he is!” was her first thought; her second “But, how sad!”

She had certainly never seen any one quite like him before. She could not tell what it was made him so different from other boys she had known; but she was quite aware that there was a difference.

No boy she had ever seen before had ever looked dreamy and sorrowful and bewildered, as this little boy did almost all through the service. The wistful sadness in his great dark eyes stirred Queenie’s sympathy as much as it quickened her imagination.

All her doubts as to the little boy’s “fitness” to be her friend vanished, she knew not how. All that seemed of any importance now was that he seemed lonely and unhappy, and that of course she must make friends with him and try to comfort him. She caught herself wondering again and again what he could be thinking of, as he sat so still in his corner, his eyes sometimes fixed upon the clergyman, sometimes wandering dreamily towards one or another of the stained glass windows. Did it all seem very strange to him? or did he remember what a church was like and feel at home there? His deportment was quite correct, but that might be imitation. How much did he remember, and how much was forgotten? It was a question that affected her imagination keenly and quite occupied all her thoughts.

She was glad that the little boy was younger than herself, though she could hardly have said why. He did not look a bit more than seven or eight, whilst she was nearly ten, and he did not look at all strong. She would be able to patronize and protect him, which was of all things what she loved best to do.

Fortune favored Queenie that day, for, as the congregation left the church, Sir Walter said to his little daughter,—

“Don’t be in a hurry; I want to speak to the Squire.”

Queenie was delighted, and eagerly waited by the little gate till the Squire should appear. He was a little time in coming, as several of the poor people had something they wished to say to him.

But he came at length, the child close at his side, at whom Sir Walter cast one curious glance, and then drew the Squire a little on one side in order to talk at his ease.

The two children were thus left confronting each other. Queenie of course spoke first.

“What is your name, little boy?” she asked, graciously.

“They call me Bertie here,” he answered, gently, lifting his cap when the little strange lady spoke to him in a way that raised him many steps higher in Queenie’s opinion.

“Well, they call me Queenie,” responded she, laughing, “though it isn’t my name, so we’re something like one another, you see. How old are you?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Mrs. Pritchard and the tailor said I must be about seven or eight.”

“I thought so!” cried Queenie, quickly; “I always guess people’s ages nearly right. I shall be ten pretty soon. We live in the nearest house to you—next door, we should say in London; but people don’t talk like that here.”

Bertie looked up with a little start.

“Next door,” he said, quickly, and then stopped short.

“What about next door?” asked Queenie.

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I thought I did; but I didn’t.”

“I want us to be friends,” said Queenie; “would you like to be?”

“If grandpapa likes,” answered Bertie, without the animation Queenie looked for.

Yet he spoke so gently that she could not be offended, and the wistful look in his eyes touched her, she could not tell why.

“Why do you call him grandpapa?” she asked, with interest. “Do you mean the Squire?”

“Yes,” answered Bertie. “He lets me call him that. It seems more natural, somehow.”

Queenie looked at him curiously.

“You must feel very funny, don’t you? I should worry all day to remember things.”

Bertie’s eyes were troubled and sad.

“That does no good, it only makes my head ache; but I like being in church.”

Queenie was aware that her father was shaking hands with the Squire. A sudden impulse came over her to speak whilst she had the chance.

“I want us to be friends,” she said again. “Do you know the big oak tree down by the sunk fence at the end of the Squire’s park, near the lodge?”

Bertie thought a little.

“I think I do.”

“If you’ll come out there to-morrow afternoon, I’ll come too. One of us can climb over, and we’ll play together. Don’t forget, and do come.”

Bertie had no time to reply. A quick smile passed between the children as they parted to go their several ways.

CHAPTER V.
SUNDAY.

IT was very easy to make it a rule that Bertie should not leave his nurseries without permission, except at stated hours; but it was a rule that appeared impossible to enforce.

It was not that he was defiant, or passionate, or even, as it seemed, wilfully disobedient; but nevertheless he was perpetually slipping away at odd moments to the library window-seat, where he would remain quietly perched up, gazing intently over the stretch of level country and well-timbered park, and when discovered and reproved he would glance up with troubled eyes into the grave face of his nurse, and say in faltering tones that he did not mean to be naughty, but he liked being there.

It seemed, indeed, as if some power more strong than that of mere liking drew him to that spot. It almost appeared that an instinct which he could not resist drove him to the place, and when Dr. Lighton heard of it, he advised that he should be given way to in this matter.

“It is evidently some train of association that attracts him—some link with the past that may in time prove of great value. I should let him alone, Squire, unless he is in your way. He may find out what we want to know, if he is allowed undisturbed leisure for thought in the spot of his own choosing.”

“He does not disturb me,” answered the Squire. “He is the quietest child in the world. He never talks, and he hardly moves. He is welcome to stay, if you think it will be productive of any good results.”

“Well, I hope it may, that is all I can say. The case is an odd one, and perplexes me, I own, but the experiment is worth trying.”

So the order was issued, and Mrs. Pritchard found her duties considerably lightened, for Bertie troubled her with little of his society, and was nearly always to be found perched silently upon the library window-seat, sometimes with a book on his knees, but more often merely resting his chin on his hand and gazing intently either at the Squire in his leather-covered chair before the writing-table, or else out of the window.

His daily walk was always the same—to visit David and the sandhills by the sea, whilst his days were spent in quiet contentment in the old library. It was an odd life for a little child to lead, as odd as the whole strange chain of circumstances that had led him to this new home.

Things were in this state by the time Sunday came round; and the brief interview with Queenie in the churchyard was the first incident that had occurred to rouse the child out of the dreamy state in which he had been sunk ever since his return to conscious life.

His eyes were brighter as he walked home beside the Squire, and he looked about him with more of natural, childish interest than he had ever evinced before.

When they stood together in the hall, the child looked up in the Squire’s face with the first smile that had been seen as yet in those wistful dark eyes.

“May I have my dinner down-stairs to-day with you?” he asked. “Because it’s Sunday, you know.”

The Squire looked meditatively into the child’s face, and asked in his turn,—

“Why should I be more troubled with you on a Sunday than on any other day?”

Bertie smiled once more quite fearlessly. It had been observed from the very first that the child had never appeared in the least afraid of the Squire, whose rather rough manner and sharp way of speaking often made him appear a formidable being to those who did not understand his truer nature.

“I won’t be any trouble,” answered Bertie, in his frank and serious way, “but I should like to come. Please will you let me?”

“Very well, I will allow it to-day, since your heart seems set upon it; but you must not take it as a precedent.”

“Oh no, of course not,” answered Bertie; “it’s only on Sundays that I want to stay with you for dinner.”

And then he mounted the stairs, to tell Mrs. Pritchard of the arrangement he had just made.

The housekeeper was less surprised than she would have been four days ago. She had observed how readily the child’s presence was tolerated in the library, and she began to indulge the secret hope that the companionship of the little boy might beguile the Squire out of his long-established habits of sorrowful reserve and gloom.

She brushed his short, dark, curly head till it shone in the sunlight, washed his face and hands, and tied afresh the little crimson bow that contrasted well with the black of his velvet jacket. The new brightness that had not yet left his face gave to it quite a new expression, and there was in the child’s whole bearing a sort of courteous yet commanding air that had not been observable before. He seemed suddenly to take it for granted that he belonged to the house, and had a certain right to a voice in its affairs.

He walked boldly down-stairs as soon as he was released from Mrs. Pritchard’s hands, and made his way into the dining-room, where the butler was laying the table.

The butler was no other than Mrs. Pritchard’s husband, and shared her compassionate interest in the little waif who had been thrown upon their hands. He smiled as the child approached, and said,—

“So you will take your dinner with the Squire to-day, Master Bertie?”

“Yes; and please don’t put me at the side of the table, Pritchard. I should prefer to sit opposite to him here at the end.”

Pritchard was by no means certain how the Squire would like this arrangement. It was seldom indeed in the years that had passed since her death that his wife’s vacant place had been occupied by any one else; but it is a weakness with elderly people, and especially with kind old servants, to give way to the fancies of a child, and Pritchard did as Bertie directed, and laid the two covers, one at the foot and the other at the head of the long table that seemed meant for a merry family party.

Bertie was standing gravely by his chair when the Squire came in and the latter cast a keen glance upon the little figure outlined against the sunny window behind.

“Shall I say grace?” asked the child, with the composure of manner that showed this to have been an old habit in the forgotten life of past days. He folded his hands and repeated a brief formula, and then he took his seat at the table and arranged his napkin with an air of perfect familiarity with the situation.

The Squire watched him with more interest than he had done before. Certainly there was something rather attractive in this little nameless boy who knew nothing about himself, yet betrayed his gentle birth and breeding in each unconscious word and movement.

“Grandpapa,” said Bertie, looking across the table, “who is the pretty little girl who sat opposite in church, and talked to me afterwards?”

“That is little Miss Arbuthnot. She lives in the big white house next to ours.”

“Yes, I know; she told me so. She asked if I would play with her sometimes. May I?”

The Squire smiled a little.

“Oh dear, yes! as far as I am concerned you may; I have not the least objection for you to play with her. Whether she will be allowed to play with you is quite another matter.”

Bertie made no response. He was not quite sure that he understood the drift of this remark, and so he took refuge in silence.

After dinner he asked leave to go out alone. He wanted to go and see David, but he did not wish to disturb Mrs. Pritchard.

“You see she will like to have a quiet nap on Sunday afternoon,” he concluded, gravely, as if well acquainted with the habits of the elderly housekeeper.

The Squire’s eyes twinkled a little.

“Who told you that, young man?”

Bertie looked a little perplexed.

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I seemed to know it.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you are far wrong. Yes, you may run along alone; you’re too big a boy to have a nurse always dangling after you. Don’t wander too far and lose yourself; but you may go and see David by yourself whenever you like.”

“Oh, thank you!” answered Bertie, eagerly; and he ran off to fetch his cap, much elated by this permission. Certainly he was beginning to awake to life in a remarkable way.

It was a mild and sunny day out of doors. The air was still and sweet, and the scent of spring was everywhere, as well as its signs and sounds. Primroses and anemones made a starry carpet beneath the great oak and beech trees of the level park. The buds were swelling visibly overhead, and the sycamores and horse-chestnuts had already shaken out some little tufts of delicate green. The birds sang overhead as they only sing in the sweet spring-time, and Bertie’s eyes grew dazzled with trying to follow the flight of the soaring larks, who rained down upon him the liquid melody of their joyous songs.

Flat and bare as was the country round, the Squire’s park was well timbered, and the trees were tall and old and grand.

His ancestors had laid out this place hundreds of years ago, had planted trees when they built the house, and had cared for the one as much as the other. The consequence was that the grounds of Arlingham Manor House looked like an oasis of green woodland amid the flat monotony of the fen country, and gave an air of picturesque well-being to the estate which it could not otherwise have possessed.

Bertie looked round him as he walked down the wide carriage road with a newly awakened interest in his surroundings. The painful confusion of his mind had given place to something of natural and healthy curiosity and pleasure. There was still a sorrowful consciousness of loss in the child’s head and heart, a sense as if a black curtain had been suddenly let down across his life and had shut him off from the light and warmth he dimly knew to be behind; but he had begun to turn his thoughts away from the blank vacancy behind, and to look out with a certain dawning hopefulness into the new life that was opening out before him.

Bertie could not have put the sensation into words, but what was happening to him was simply this. The faint recollections of a forgotten past that had wearied and confused his brain during the first days of his return to consciousness were fading away in the stronger light of an actual, tangible present, and, save in certain places and under certain conditions, the painful sense of bewildered perplexity was gradually giving way to a more healthy frame of mind.

The park, with its voiceless language of coming spring, awoke no associations within the child’s breast. He walked on quietly, enjoying it all very much, but haunted by no illusive visions that refused to be defined; troubled by nothing worse than a sort of anxiety lest Queenie, the pretty little girl whose name Mrs. Pritchard had told him, should not be able to keep the appointment she had made for the following afternoon.

But he had soon left the park behind, and came out upon the low sandhills that stretched away for at least a quarter of a mile towards the margin of the sea. The sun shone very bright and warm here; the soft sand crumbled beneath his feet; and the sea-gulls walked tamely about, and looked at him with a sort of impudent assurance before they took wing. Bertie was fond of this spot; he could not have said why, for something in its level desolation always made him a little sad; yet the sight of the boundless waste of heaving water and the arid stretches of pale sand had an odd fascination for him, and he would have felt sorrowful had a day passed without his visiting at least once the scene that exercised a powerful sway over his imagination.

As he wandered down towards the margin of the sea, a little black figure jumped up from a recumbent position upon the sand, and David and Bertie stood face to face.

They looked very different indeed now, the two children who had once been almost like little brothers for a few brief days of their life: David, with his pale blue eyes, straw-colored hair, indeterminate face, and coarse clothing, and Bertie, dark-eyed, dark-haired, clad in velvet, and with that nameless air about him that bespoke birth and breeding as no costliness of apparel could do. The boy’s face was aglow with intelligence and eager welcome, and its expression was so utterly different, in its refinement and sweetness, from the awkward, clumsy pleasure painted upon that of the fisherman’s boy, that it was no great wonder, perhaps, if David himself had some dim perception of it.

He stopped short and gazed at Bertie for a full minute in silence, and then said, heaving a great sigh,—

“Eh, but thee is so beautiful! I do love thee!”

Bertie smiled and took both of David’s hands in his.

“I love you too,” he answered. “What are you doing, David?”

“I be learning my Sunday lesson. I goes to school mornings before church; but I don’t go afternoons. I come out here and learns my lesson. Does anybody give thee Sunday lessons to learn?”

Bertie’s hand went up for a moment to his head.

“Not here,” he answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I should like to learn yours with you, David.”

The fisher lad’s face brightened.

“Would’ee now? Eh, but that’s prime! I’ll learn un twice as fast with thee.”

They sat down together upon the sand and laid their arms over each other’s shoulders. David produced a card upon which the words of his lesson were printed in large type:

“I will be with thee: I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee. Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”

Together the children read the words, and repeated them again and again until they were quite familiar. David had almost mastered them before, and Bertie had no trouble in impressing them upon his memory; but after this was done, and David considered the matter at an end, his little companion looked straight at him and asked,—

“What does it all mean, David?”

David stared hard for a few seconds at his questioner, and said, slowly,—

“Teacher said as it was what God said to Joshua after Moses had gone and died, you know.”

Bertie’s chin rested meditatively in his hand, his eyes were fixed upon the shining sea.

“Did He say it only to Joshua?” he asked, with a certain wistfulness in face and voice.

David’s brow drew itself into perplexed wrinkles.

“Teacher said as He says it to everybody; but I don’t understand about that. Maybe you do.”

Bertie’s face brightened.

“That’s just what I wanted to know. You’re sure she said so?”

“Certain sure I be,” answered David, gravely. “She said as God loved us all alike, and wouldn’t forsake none of us any more than Joshua. Only we’ve got to trust Him, you know, like Joshua did.”

Bertie’s face was very thoughtful.

“It seems as if He’d forsaken me,” said the child, dreamily. “It seems as if I’d forgotten everybody, and everybody had forgotten me.”

David looked perplexed and distressed for a moment, and then his brightest smile shone over his face.

“I don’t believe God’s forgot thee after all,” he said. “I don’t believe He ever would.”

Bertie’s face was very grave. He was not equally sure of this.

“I’ll tell thee what to do,” cried David, with a sudden flash of inspiration. “Thee’d best tell God all about it, and ask Him to remember thee again, if He’s forgot. I’m main sure He would then. He couldn’t choose but love thee.”

“I wonder if He’d listen,” said Bertie, slowly.

“Teacher says He will,” answered David, with modest confidence. “She says as He’ll hear the likes of us, so I know He’ll hear thee.”

Bertie looked down at the words upon the card, and repeated them aloud.

“I’ve got to be strong and of good courage,” he said. “Well, I’ll try. I’d like to be that—boys ought to be brave and strong. I’ll ask God to help me, and not to forget me much longer”—the child’s hand was pressed to his head now, and he added, with a strange glance at his companion,—“only we must always say, ‘Thy will be done,’ too.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE FIRST INTERVIEW.

“SO you have come at last, have you?” said Queenie, tossing her curly head and speaking with a sort of disdainful pride. “I thought you had most likely forgotten all about it.”

Queenie had been waiting for some time by the old oak tree near to the sunk fence, and during that time she had mounted her “high horse,” and was by no means disposed at once to quit her exalted position. A very imperious and exacting young lady could little Miss Arbuthnot show herself when she had a mind to do so.

“You didn’t say any particular time, you know,” answered Bertie, gently.

“I said afternoon,” returned Queenie, with dignity. “That means after dinner, of course. I came as soon as I could get out after dinner, and if you had been what people say you are, you would have done the same.”

“What do people say I am?” asked Bertie.

“They say you are a gentleman,” answered Queenie; “but I don’t feel so sure about it. Do you think you are?”

Bertie shook his head.

“Oh no! I’m only a little boy.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” cried Queenie, impatiently. “What a stupid little boy you must be! I’m only a little girl; but then I’m a lady too, as you can see for yourself.”

Bertie’s eyes opened wide.

“Are you?” he questioned, innocently. “I don’t think I should have known.”

Queenie drew herself up for a moment, as if she were going to walk away in a pet; but, as Bertie did not in the least understand his own enormities and showed no disposition to follow and humble himself, she stopped short and began to laugh instead.

Bertie understood that sort of thing, and he joined in the laugh, without quite knowing why.

“You’re such a funny little boy,” said Queenie. “You’re not a bit like my brothers; but I like you. I think we shall be friends, don’t you?”

“I should like it,” answered Bertie; “only—”

“Well? Only what?”

“Only the Squire didn’t think you’d be allowed to play with me.”

“Did he say so? When?”

“At dinner-time yesterday, when I asked if I might play with you. He said I might; but he didn’t think you’d be let to play with me.”

Queenie laughed and tossed her head.

“I think the Squire is a very clever old man; but you see I’m cleverer still.”

“How?”

“Why, because I do things without asking leave. It saves such a lot of trouble.”

Bertie looked rather scandalized.

“Do you mean you wouldn’t be allowed to play with me if people knew about it?”

“Papa wouldn’t mind,” answered Queenie, quickly; “he lets me do as I like. It’s only mamma who is so tiresome. Mamma wanted me never to go out alone, even in the garden, but papa said it was all nonsense, and that I might. I love papa twice as much as mamma. He’s just given me a pony to ride—such a pretty little pony, brown, with black legs! Would you like to come and see him?”

Bertie’s eyes were shining with a strange light.

“Yes,” he answered. “I should like it very much. I think—I must have had a pony—once.”

“Did you?” questioned Queenie, eagerly. “Oh, if you can ride, we can go out together sometimes. I’ll get papa to say we may. Now come and see my pony. Mamma is out, and papa won’t mind a bit if he does see you.”

Queenie had climbed the sunk fence once before Bertie had joined her, and had put the great trunk of the oak tree between herself and the chance of pursuit by nurse or any other attendant; but now she was eager to retrace her steps, and to display to her new companion the possessions of which she was most proud.

Bertie followed her willingly enough. He felt sure, after what the Squire had said, that he would not object, and as for Queenie’s odd statements regarding her relations with her parents, the little boy did not profess to understand them, nor did he, at the present stage of their acquaintance, feel called upon to interfere or criticise. Queenie’s fearless gaiety of manner exercised a certain fascination upon him, and he was quite ready to let her take the lead, whilst he humbly followed in her wake.

They climbed the sunk fence together, and then Queenie took his hand protectingly and led him up the meadow towards the back of the house.

“We will go round by the farm first,” said Queenie. “I will show you my chickens.”

The farmyard was certainly an attractive spot, and the little mistress was evidently a great favorite with all the men employed there. Hard, stolid faces smiled kindly upon the two children, and rough hands were eager and willing to do their bidding, whatever it might be.

Queenie talked to the laborers with her little air of stately affability that impressed Bertie very much. He was inclined to be shy and silent himself; but the little girl did not know what shyness meant, and chattered away to him and to every one who came near them in a way that evidently made her an immense favorite.

The chickens were very sweet indeed, little fluffy balls of yellow and black. Bertie was delighted with them, and the children spent a good half-hour in the poultry yard, feeding the fowls and laughing at their funny ways.

“I’ll give you some chickens if you like, when they’re big enough to leave the hen,” said Queenie, who loved to patronize.

“I think the Squire has plenty of his own, thank you,” answered Bertie. “I don’t know if he’d care for me to have any more.”

“Do you like his yard as well as ours?” asked Queenie, rather jealously.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

“Never been! Why not?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of it. I’m not sure that he’d like me to go.”

“You could go when he was out.”

But Bertie shook his head resolutely.

“Why not, pray? It would do no harm.”

“I shouldn’t like to go if he hadn’t given me leave,” answered Bertie.

Queenie tossed her head.

“Who taught you to be so strait-laced as all that? Mrs. Pritchard?”

“No,” answered Bertie, slowly; “Mrs. Pritchard never said anything about it.”

Queenie looked at him, and he looked at her, his eyes dreamy and wistful.

“I think you must have been very strictly brought up,” she said, gravely. “That sort of thing would not suit me. You would have much more spirit if you were less particular. You should see my brothers. They don’t care about anything.”

Bertie did not seem convinced by this argument, but he held his peace, as he always did when not quite sure of his ground. Queenie thought she had won a victory, and said graciously,—

“Now we will come and see my pony.”

When Bertie found himself in the stable, he seemed more at home than he had done in the farmyard. He went boldly up to the pony in his box, and stroked and caressed him as if he had known what it was to be on friendly terms with a horse before. The creature responded to his advances and Queenie looked on with a gracious air of approval.

“Why, here is papa!” she cried, suddenly; and Bertie turned round in time to see the gentleman who had stopped the Squire on Sunday entering by the stable door.

“Hullo, Queenie! what are you doing here?” was the quick inquiry; “and what would mamma say?”

“I am showing Bertie my pony,” answered Queenie, running up and taking her father’s hand coaxingly. “I didn’t come alone. I had Bertie with me. You know who Bertie is, don’t you, papa? The little boy who lives with the Squire now.”

Of course Sir Walter had heard the romantic story, and he looked at the child with kindly interest. Bertie took off his cap and gave his hand to the baronet with the gentle courtesy characteristic of him.

“Well, my little lad, and how do you like your new home?” he asked.

Bertie’s eyes grew vaguely sorrowful.

“Everybody is very kind,” he said; adding after a short pause, and rather inconsequently, “Your little girl has been showing me her chickens and her pony.”

“That is right, that is right; and have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. I like horses. I think I used to ride on one once.”

That look that always shone in the child’s eyes when he spoke or thought of the vanished past touched the baronet’s kind heart.

“Well, well, you will soon know all about it, no doubt; and meantime, you must come and talk to my little girl as often as you can, and play together and enjoy yourselves. Now run off, Queenie, and take your little friend with you. You can ask Bennet if he has any strawberries to spare for you. Keep in the garden, children. You know, Queenie, mamma does not like your being in the yard or the stable.”

Queenie knew this quite well; but she did not care always to remember such prohibitions, and she knew that her father never enforced discipline with any great authority.

She looked at him with a saucy laugh.

“Mamma would like me to live in a glass case, wrapped up in cotton wool; but I don’t think she’d keep me there long.”

Sir Walter laughed too.

“Now run away, puss, and take Bertie with you; and try to keep out of mischief for one day of your life, if you can.”

Queenie stood on tiptoe to make her father bend down whilst she whispered in his ear,—

“And you’ll make mamma let Bertie come here often? He’s a nice little boy, and has nobody to play with; and it must be so dull for him living all alone with the Squire.”

Sir Walter smiled at his little daughter’s way of pleading her cause.

“It isn’t that you want a playfellow yourself, I suppose?” he questioned. “It’s all for Bertie’s sake, of course. Well, well, I’ll see about it. Yes, certainly, I have no objection to your playing together.”

So Queenie led Bertie away in triumph, saying as she did so,—

“There! I knew papa would let us be friends. Now you will have somebody to talk to when you are dull.”

If Miss Queenie had expected Bertie to be very much impressed by this favor, she was certainly doomed to be disappointed.

“I have somebody to talk to now,” he answered.

“Yes, but not anybody who is any fun,” answered Queenie, quickly. “Grown-up people are so dull.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anybody grown up.”

“Who were you thinking of then?” asked the little girl, regardless of grammar.

“I was thinking of David,” answered Bertie. “I go to see him every day.”

Queenie drew up her head in a very lofty way.

“David!” she repeated, superciliously; “and pray who may David be?”

“He is the fisherman’s boy,” answered Bertie, simply. “He lives in that little cottage on the sandhills down by the sea. I lived there a few days before the Squire took me. David was very kind to me then; and I am very fond of him.”

Queenie’s head was held up very high.

“Very fond of a fisher lad!” she repeated, very slowly and clearly, as if such an idea as that required careful investigation. “Well, perhaps in that case you had better go to your dear David. You will find him much more entertaining than me.”

“No,” answered Bertie, with great gravity; “he isn’t so amusing; but I think he is a good boy. He cares about being good much more than you do.”

Queenie turned round upon Bertie with an air of outraged pride and with eyes that flashed angrily. She pointed imperiously towards the boundary fence that divided the Squire’s property from her father’s.

“If you are going to compare me to your precious David, you need not trouble to come here again. Go to your dear fisher people, since you are so fond of them. It is very plain you are not yet to be my friend.”

And Queenie marched away with her head held very high in the air, and Bertie, after gazing after her very much astonished for some minutes, quietly turned away and wandered home, not at all disturbed by the outbreak, only regarding it as a new development of the odd disposition of his little new friend.

CHAPTER VII.
THE FUGITIVE.

QUEENIE was very much surprised when she found that Bertie had taken her at her word, and had not tried to follow her or coax her out of her fit of temper. As soon as her pride would allow her, she turned to look back, and saw Bertie quietly climbing the fence and pursuing his way home again, without a single lingering backward glance at his offended companion.

Queenie was so much astonished by this unexpected display of spirit, that she stood quite still for several minutes, and then suddenly began to laugh. It occurred to her that Bertie was only doing exactly what she would have done in his place, and she was sensible enough as well as generous enough to see that she could not reasonably take offence at conduct so very like her own.

“After all, it was my fault,” she said to herself. “I told him to go, which wasn’t quite polite, as he was my guest. I hope papa will not come after me and ask where he is. He would not like me to be rude. Bertie was rude too; he had no business to speak of me and David as if we were anything to do with one another—and to call him gooder than me!” Queenie often became ungrammatical when she was put out. “I’ll soon show him that I’m not going to put up with that sort of thing.” The little girl tossed her curly head, and her face assumed its expression of greatest dignity, which was, however, soon replaced by a look of regret and sorrow. “But I wish he had not gone, all the same. I do like having a boy to play with, and he was a nice little boy, I think, although he’s not a bit like any one I’ve ever seen before.”

Queenie pursued her way to the house in rather a melancholy mood, feeling as if a promising beginning to friendship had suddenly been nipped in the bud. She was afraid to stay in the garden, lest her father should see her and ask what had become of Bertie, so she wandered rather aimlessly into the house and up the staircase to the corridor where the nurseries were situated. These were shut off from the rest of the house by a red baize door, and as Queenie heard this swing to behind her this afternoon, and saw the row of doors belonging to the “boys’ rooms,” which were never banged now, and only shut in cold emptiness and vacancy, she said once more softly to herself,—

“I do hate term-time. It is quite horrid when all the boys are away.”

Then Queenie stopped short suddenly, for she saw something that puzzled, and for a moment rather startled her.

The door of one of these empty rooms moved, and opened quite slowly a very little way. The sun was shining upon the panels from the window at the end of the passage, otherwise her attention might hardly have been attracted by anything so slight as the movement of the door; but as it was she stood quite still, gazing with all her eyes, and wondering in a half-fearful fashion what could have opened it.

The next thing she saw was an eye cautiously applied to the chink of the door. She was quite certain that it was an eye, although the chink was so narrow that she could see nothing else, and only a glimpse of the eye.

Queenie was not a timid child. She did not shriek or rush screaming away; but she was a little afraid, for she could not imagine who could be hiding in the empty room, and she did not much think that her nurse was up-stairs.

But as she stood there quite still, wondering what she should do, a head was suddenly popped round the door, a smothered, laughing voice cried, “Queenie!” in a sort of whisper, and the head was instantly withdrawn. Queenie uttered a little shriek of ecstasy, and made a dash at the door.

“Phil!” she cried, with breathless eagerness.

The closed door opened suddenly, she was pulled in with unceremonious haste, and the door was closed and bolted behind them in a moment of time.

Queenie was so bewildered by this mysterious appearance of her favorite brother, that she was absolutely tongue-tied. She could only gasp out,—

“Phil!”

And the curly-headed lad, his eyes full of laughter and his face brimming over with fun, caught his little sister round the waist, and executed the wildest of war-dances without speaking a single word.

At last, when both were fairly exhausted, he flung himself upon his bed and burst into a fit of tumultuous yet noiseless laughter.

Queenie’s eyes were quite round with astonishment. She was too much perplexed and surprised to join in her brother’s mirth.

“Phil,” she said at last, in her little imperious way, “do tell me what it is. I don’t understand. Why have you come home now?”

The boy sat up on his bed and laid his finger on his lips. His eyes were sparkling with mischief, yet his face wore a look of preternatural gravity.

“Hush!” he said, in a tragic whisper; “if any one hears us I am lost!”

“What do you mean, Phil?”

Queenie, however, lowered her voice to a whisper. If she did not believe in danger, at least she scented mischief, and her eyes began to shine like Phil’s with the anticipation of coming fun.

“Is anybody about?” asked Phil, cautiously.

“I don’t know. Shall I go and see?”

“Yes, do; and bring me something to eat if you can. I’m half famished.”

Queenie asked no more questions for the moment; but, after listening intently at the door, to make sure there was nobody outside, she glided out into the corridor and dashed across to the nursery. Nobody was there. She had announced her intention of spending the afternoon in the garden, so that her nurse had left her usual domain and had gone elsewhere. She might, of course, be back at any moment, as the child well knew, and she did not waste a moment in the fulfilment of her task.

Queenie was quite the spoiled darling of the household, and all the servants vied with each other to do her pleasure, and give her everything they thought she could want. The cook made her cakes of every description, of which she had quite a collection in the nursery cupboard; the butler gave her more figs and plums, almonds and raisins and crystallized fruits than she could possibly consume; and, as a natural consequence, Queenie could provide a feast for herself or anybody else at a moment’s notice, and in less time than it has taken to explain all this she had filled a little basket with all sorts of good things, and had rushed back to Phil as silently and swiftly as a bird.

The schoolboy’s eye sparkled as the contents of the basket were emptied upon the bed. He snatched up the most substantial of the cakes and set to work upon it with ravenous eagerness.

Queenie saw at a glance that it would be hopeless to expect him to speak until he had satisfied his hunger. She sat down upon the bed also, nibbled at a date, and tried to hazard a guess as to what could possibly have happened.

Phil was the youngest of the boys, and had not yet gone to Eton, being still at a preparatory school. He was nearly thirteen, and in September he was to join his brothers, and become a public schoolboy, which was the summit of his present ambition; this therefore was his last term at Dr. Steele’s school, where all the Arbuthnot boys had received their early education; and what made him suddenly turn up at home, when the first month of term-time had not expired, was more than his little sister could imagine. She knew he always professed to hate Dr. Steele’s establishment; but by his own account he always managed to have plenty of fun there.

Phil was not long in making away with all the good things his sister had brought him. When the last mouthful had been consumed, he heaved a sigh and said,—

“Ah, now I feel rather better; but I’ve had no dinner, and hardly any breakfast. Queenie, you’ll have to hide me somewhere for a few days, and feed me secretly, like people used to do in the olden times. I’m a fugitive, you know, in peril of my life.”

Queenie’s eyes dilated slowly.

“Oh, Phil!” she said, in awestruck tones; “what have you done?”

“I’ve run away,” he answered, the gravity of his face belied by the mirthful twinkle of his eye,—“I’ve run away, Queenie, to save Dr. Steele the pain and trouble of sending me away.”

“Oh!” breathed Queenie, her mouth growing as round as her eyes as she began to understand a little. She had often heard it said that Phil would undoubtedly be expelled some day, if he could not conquer his predilection for playing pranks, and she had secretly wished that he might. “So you have been getting into a row, have you, Phil?”

She spoke in an eager whisper, for she delighted in Phil’s natural bias towards mischief and bravado. She never felt more entirely proud of her brother than when listening to accounts of his reckless disregard for rules and his calm defiance when detected. I am afraid Queenie is not the only little girl in existence who shares in this admiration for lawlessness and mischief; and perhaps those of us who have not grown too old to remember how we felt when we were young may understand this naughty feeling, and perhaps sympathize a little with it. After all, if boys never got into mischief, the nursery would be a duller place than it is; and so long as they can be manly and truthful and honest with it all, it is not so very hard to forgive a little “kicking over the traces,” which is common and natural to two-legged as well as four-footed creatures, when first they begin to run in harness. As a rule, they do no great harm, and steady down to the collar in due time.

“Do tell me all about it, Phil,” pleaded Queenie, very eagerly. “Have you got into a very bad row this time?”

Queenie must be forgiven if she used slang words now and then. With four brothers to teach her, she could hardly have escaped.

Phil looked at his sister, and winked his eye in a very knowing way.

“I’ve not got into a row at all. I just cut and ran before there was time for the explosion. I’m a fugitive, Queenie! I’ve run away! and now you’ve got to hide me!”

“Oh, Phil! Why!”

The boy showed his white teeth in one of his own merriest smiles.

“Hush! that’s part of the plan. I want to give them a good scare, and then they’ll be so glad to get me safe home they’ll never think of putting me into disgrace; and we’ll just have a jolly summer together, Queenie, you and I, until September comes and I go to Eton. You’ll help me, won’t you? and then we’ll have the best times we ever had in our lives.”

Queenie’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh, Phil, how splendid! But won’t they send you back to Dr. Steele’s?”

“Not they! Besides, he would not have me at any price, the old buffer. He says I’m worse than all the rest of the four dozen put together. Oh no, trust him! He’ll not have me back; and if we only manage to give them a scare at this end, I shall be received with open arms, and they’ll be so glad to get me home safe that they’ll never remember to scold.”

“But what have you done, Phil?” asked Queenie. “I want to know all about it.”

Phil grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh, it was such a lark! I’d do it again to-morrow if I had the chance. I do love to rile old Higgins! You know who old Higgins is, don’t you?—the under-master next to Steele himself,—a horrid old curmudgeon whom we all detest. Steele is bad enough, but Higgins!—such a name too!—Higgins! It’s enough to put any fellow’s monkey up to be bullied by a creature with a name like that! Well, this is how it was, you know. Steele had to go away for a day or two, and of course Higgins was left boss of the place, and began his usual bullying tricks, keeping us twice as strict as the Doctor does, and giving us twice the punishment we ought to have if ever he caught us at anything.”

“What a horrid creature!” interposed Queenie, with sympathetic indignation.

“So he is; but we weren’t going to be done by him, you bet. I’m not the fellow to sit quiet and be bullied, and there were plenty of fellows ready to join with me. You know, on the 1st of May every year, there is a big fair at Blexbury, three miles away, and of course we’re not allowed to go. It’s long out of bounds, and then a fair’s considered an awful bad sort of place. I’m sure I don’t know why, for there’s nothing but fun, and gingerbread, and merry-go-rounds, and shooting-galleries, and things that couldn’t hurt anybody. Anyhow, of course, we weren’t allowed to go, and of course lots of us do go every year.”

“Do you?”

“Why, to be sure we do; and this year there were to be fireworks in the evening too, and we meant to go twice, first in the afternoon, and then at night. It was a half-holiday, you know,—Saturday,—so nothing could have been better; and old Higgins gave out after morning school that no boy was to go beyond bounds that day, on pain of—I don’t know what—unheard-of penalties.”

Queenie drew a long breath.

“But you went?”

“Of course we went—a dozen of us at least, and old Higgins too, and we dodged him about up and down the fair, and led him such a dance. Oh, didn’t he get wild, and didn’t the people laugh at him! And didn’t the little boys throw mud, and the women tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, chasing about the lads who only wanted to enjoy themselves and get a little fun. Some of the fellows kept out of sight, but I didn’t care; I let him see me fast enough, and, as he always hated me, he pretended he only saw me, and only really tried to catch me.”

“And did he?”

Phil laughed uproariously and kicked up his heels with joy.

“Catch me! I should just think he didn’t. I’d like to have seen him do it. Everybody was on my side. The men hid me in their tents and the women in their stalls, and wouldn’t let him come in at any price; and the menagerie-man—he was a jolly fellow—he beckoned me to come up into his circus place, and when old Higgins came rushing up after me, he just opened the cage of a big monkey, who sprang out at old Higgins, whipped off his hat and chawed it up, and gave him such a scratch all down his nose! He’ll carry that scratch to the end of time, I know. After that he thought he’d had enough, and went home without his hat in such a sweet temper. And that night we screwed him up in his room, after all the servants had gone to bed, and let off fireworks under his window.”

Queenie’s delight knew no bounds. Phil was more of a hero than ever.

“Go on! go on!” she cried. “What happened next day?”

“Next day was yesterday, and Sunday, you know; and old Higgins was so used up with rage that he could not appear all day. I was ordered to my room; but I said, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ and went a walk instead. I knew it was all up with me by that time. The Doctor was coming back on Monday morning,—to-day you see,—so I didn’t trouble to wait for him, but just bolted before any one was astir. I didn’t go to the town or station, where we’re pretty well known, but cut across country for ten miles to a big junction, where I was not likely to be noticed. I’d just money enough for my ticket and some rolls, and that’s all I’ve had to eat since morning. You must manage to give me a good feed somehow, soon, and to look after me for a few days; for I mean to give Higgins and Steele a good fright before I’ve done with them.”

“Did nobody see you get in?” asked Queenie, excitedly.

“No, not a soul. I took good care of that. I managed beautifully, for I didn’t mean anybody but you to know. You’ll keep the secret, won’t you, Queenie? It will be such a lark having the whole country raised after me, and me here all the time.”

Queenie’s eyes sparkled.

“Like Cassy in ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Oh yes, Phil, I’ll hide you if I can! only—only—won’t papa and mamma be frightened too?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so—not for a day or so. They know I can take care of myself well enough. I want them to be just frightened enough to be very pleased to see me back, and we’ll not let them get more frightened than will be just right.”

Queenie was satisfied with this compromise. She was eager to carry out Phil’s scheme, for she had a keen love for adventure and romance, and it seemed to her a delightfully romantic thing to hide away her fugitive brother whilst his cruel and inhuman schoolmasters hunted high and low for him. Her zeal was great, and Phil knew he could trust both her courage and discretion, and the main difficulty was to know how and where to dispose of himself.

“You had better stop here for to-night,” said Queenie, with her little air of command; “nobody will come till the housemaid goes round in the morning; I don’t know if she comes every day when you are all away. There is the wardrobe cupboard you could hide in, if you heard anybody coming, but I’ll take care nobody does to-day. To-morrow morning early, I think, you’ll have to get out of the window and down by the ivy and hide somewhere in the garden till we can settle something. If I were you, I’d get over the fence and hide in one of the Squire’s shrubberies, and I’ll come to you as soon as ever I can.”

Phil nodded his head approvingly.

“That’s the sort of thing, Queenie, that’s the sort of thing;” and after ten minutes’ animated discussion their plans till the morrow were all carefully laid. Then Queenie had to effect her escape unseen, for nursery tea was imminent; and then there was the difficult and delicate task of obtaining some substantial supplies and conveying them to Phil. Queenie, however, proved herself equal to the occasion. She wandered innocently down to the housekeeper’s room, where she was always welcome, and paid a visit to cook in the larder, and admired very much a row of meat pies that she had lately taken from the oven.

As she was wandering about in the aimless way that children do when they find themselves amongst indulgent old servants, who are pleased to see them about their premises, she was aware of a commotion in the servants’ hall.

“Cook!” cried a voice from thence,—“only think, cook, a telegram has just come from the master to say that Master Phil has run away from school, and can’t be heard of anywhere!”

Cook threw up her hands in dismay at the news, and hurried away to learn all particulars. Queenie was sharp enough to know that for the next few minutes all the servants would be congregated together to hear the news and discuss it with keen interest and wonder. She therefore acted with care and deliberation, took down one savory pie from the shelf, rearranging the rest so that it was not likely to be missed, and stole quietly and coolly away with her prize, no hurried movement or undue excitement hindering her from carrying out her design in the best possible way.

Bread and all other additions were easily obtained from the nursery table, and Phil supped sumptuously that night.

The little girl was told nothing about her brother, for which she was glad, in case her face might betray her; but when she went down to dessert that evening, she fancied her mother seemed rather nervous and put out, and she was a little troubled at first; but as she left the room, she was reassured by hearing her father say,—

“Of course I will go over to-morrow and see about it, but you may trust Phil for looking after himself. He’ll come to no harm, you may be sure; he’ll be turning up like a bad halfpenny somewhere before another day is out. You see if he doesn’t.”

And Queenie laughed quietly to herself as she ran up-stairs to her nursery, very full of importance and delight.

CHAPTER VIII.
BERTIE AND PHIL.

BERTIE was not at all angry at being ordered home by his imperious little companion, neither was he indisposed to obey the mandate. He liked Queenie, she amused and interested him, but he found her a little overwhelming, and he was not altogether sorry to quit her presence and be alone once more.

Several new impressions had been made upon him during the past hour, and a little of the aching sense of bewilderment, now slowly leaving him, had been awakened by his visit to the stable and the appearance of Sir Walter Arbuthnot. He could not tell why some things seemed to hurt him in an odd, inexplicable fashion, whilst others made no impression upon his mind. Yet undoubtedly such was the case, and, as the dim and undefined sense of familiarity was always followed by a sort of reaction of sorrowful bewilderment and distress, Bertie was rather glad to be left alone to pursue his way unmolested and in peace.

His little face was pale and sad as he paused at last beneath a great beech-tree and sat down upon its gnarled roots to think. He looked down at the primroses growing at his feet, and put out his hand as if to pluck them; but he drew it back again, and then instead began stroking their leaves with gentle, loving touches.

“Poor little pretty things!” he said, half aloud; “I won’t take them away; I’m sure they’ll be happier here.”

Bertie looked up from the flowers to the blue sky overhead, and, as he looked, sudden tears glistened in his eyes.

“I wish I was a primrose, growing in a nice quiet place like this. Everybody is fond of flowers; but nobody wants me.”

The child’s lip quivered. A wave of desolation was sweeping over the lonely little heart. With the greater clearness of perception that was coming to him by degrees, was coming also a clearer understanding of the peculiar isolation of his position. He had less and less hope of remembering the past—its fleeting memories grew rather less than more defined, and eluded his grasp with even greater pertinacity than at first. He was not old enough to realize to the full the curious position he occupied; but he did begin to understand something of the situation, and to feel his loneliness and friendlessness with the acute sensibility peculiar to childhood.

“Nobody wants me,” he said, slowly; “I don’t belong to anybody in the world; I haven’t even got a name. The Squire is very kind; but he doesn’t want me. He would rather I was somewhere else.”

A tear rolled slowly down each of the child’s cheeks and fell upon his little thin hands. Bertie looked meditatively at them as they sparkled in the sunshine, and then he slowly wiped his eyes.

“I mustn’t be a baby,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t do any good, and people will think I am naughty and ungrateful. I wish I could be happy like Queenie; but she has a papa and mamma and a home of her own, and I have nobody.” He put his hands up to his head again with the old perplexed look, but that faded in time, as the blank of the present closed him in.

“I think I’ll go and see David,” he said, slowly; and, rising to his feet, he wandered down to the shore.

David was always more or less on the look-out for his beloved companion. His tender admiration for Bertie had in no wise diminished; indeed, it seemed rather to increase as time passed by, though he gave it little expression.

He ran up eagerly to meet Bertie as he approached, but all he said was,—

“I do be glad thee’s come.”

Still these simple words of welcome were sweet to Bertie at this minute.

“David,” he said, as they wandered down to the margin of the waves, hand in hand and with slow, lingering steps, “I’m afraid He’s forgotten me—I am indeed.”

David’s eyes opened wide.

“Who?” he asked, briefly.

“God,” answered the child, with deep gravity and a sort of settled sadness that was not without its effect upon his companion. “I think He must have quite forgotten me.”

“Why?”

“I feel forgotten,” answered Bertie, and his lip quivered. “I feel as if everybody had forgotten me, and God too. If He hadn’t, why don’t I remember?—He might let me, I think.”

But Bertie couldn’t get on any further than that, and David stood staring over the sea, as if to glean inspiration from the ever-changing, tossing sheet of water.

When his answer came, it was spoken with a sort of modest diffidence, as if he hardly knew whether it would be accepted as an answer at all.

“He don’t forget easy, I don’t think, lovy. He don’t never forget to stop the sea when he’s come up high enough. It don’t matter whether it’s nights or days, He’s always watching, and sends it back again. If He forgot only once, our cottage would be drownded, it would, but He never do. Father’s lived there all his life, and his father afore him; that’s ever so many years, and He’s never forgot once all that time. It do seem as if forgetting wasn’t much in His way.”

This was such a very long speech for David to make, that when it was done he seemed almost afraid of his own boldness; but Bertie made no answer, only stood quite still, looking dreamily out over the water.

After a long silence David took courage and spoke again.

“I don’t see as He could forget thee,” he said, with a certain finality in his tone that was comforting in its assurance,— “’specially when thee’s so much down by the sea here. He must see thee when He looks down to make the waves go back.”

Bertie looked up into the sunny sky, and a little smile broke over his face.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said, slowly. “I wonder if He does.”

“I’m main sure He must,” answered David, with an increase of confidence. “I ain’t no scholar, but I know teacher said as them words on my card were for everybody as would take un. Teacher knows all about it; I know she’d tell you as He doesn’t ever forget, and I can kind of understand it too, because He don’t forget the sea, you know.”

Bertie’s face looked a little less sad, though still very grave and thoughtful. He seemed to have a purpose in his mind, which he proceeded to confide to David.

“When will it be high tide, David?”

“In half an hour about.”

“Then I’ll wait for it,” said Bertie. “Let’s sit down just above high-water mark.”

David obeyed readily, and when they were seated upon the loose dry sand he looked at his little companion as if awaiting instructions.

Bertie rested his chin in his hand, in one of his favorite attitudes, and when he spoke it was with great deliberation.

“You’re sure it’s God who makes the tide turn, David?”

“Yes, quite sure. Mother says so, and father and teacher and everybody. Besides nobody else couldn’t do it.”

“No,” answered Bertie; “there was a king once who tried to—no, let me think how it was. His servants told him he could, because he was such a great king; but he knew he couldn’t, and did not like the people to say such things. So he came down and sat on the sand one day when the tide was coming in, and told it to go back, and of course it wouldn’t; and the silly men who had pretended to think the sea would obey him were made ashamed of themselves. Somebody told me the story once—it was a lady—we were sitting in a big room with red curtains, by a fire—”

Bertie stopped suddenly; the flash had gone and left him in darkness; he could see nothing more. David had listened with deep attention.

“That’s a nice story,” he said, adding, after a moment’s pause, “I knew there wasn’t nobody but God as could stop the sea.”

Bertie gave himself a little shake and brought himself back to the present.

“Do you think God looks down out of heaven every time to send it back?”

“I think He must. It do all go so regular like; don’t see how it could if He didn’t look after it well.”

Bertie turned his answer over, and seemed convinced.

“Then, if we go on sitting here, He can’t help seeing us too?”

“No, I don’t see as He can.”

“Very well,” said Bertie, with an odd look of purpose on his face, “we’ll sit and wait. You tell me when it’s high tide.”

Upon that level shore each wave seemed to advance upon the last, and the distance between high and low-water mark was very great. As a natural consequence, the turn of the tide was more easily defined along that coast than upon one more steep, and the practised eye of the habitual watcher could distinguish with considerable accuracy the moment at which the tide might be fairly said to “be on the turn.”

The children sat very silent during the space of time that elapsed before this turn should occur. David’s face had caught some of the awe from Bertie’s, and he felt as if an impending crisis were approaching with the advancing waves.

At length David said, in a low voice,—

“It be turning now.”

And Bertie suddenly rose and knelt down, baring his head as he did so, whilst David copied every movement and clasped his hands together, as he saw his little companion do.

Side by side upon the warm sand the two children knelt for many long minutes. A look of awe was upon Bertie’s face. He felt, as he saw the advancing waves gradually begin to retire, as if the great God of heaven were very near to them, looking down from His holy place, bidding the great ocean keep its appointed limits. Surely He must see the two little children kneeling before Him; and surely He would listen to their prayers.

Bertie’s prayer took no articulate form. He could not put into words the strange longing that was in his mind—a longing to be remembered, helped, comforted—not to be left so utterly alone. It was more a cry than a prayer that arose from his heart, and yet he felt that he had been heard.

He knelt for many minutes beside the receding waves, and when he rose his face wore a look of calmness and serenity very different from its troubled expression half an hour before.

“David,” he said, “I do think God was very near us then. I think He heard.”

“Ay, ay, He’d be sure to hear thee. What did thee say?”

“I don’t quite know,” answered Bertie, gravely; “but I’m sure God understood.”

“I be sure too,” returned David, with absolute confidence.

“I should like to come here every day when the tide turns,” said Bertie.

“I wish thee would. I’d always be here too, I would.”

Bertie pondered for a few moments.

“I’ll come as often as I can,” he said; “but I can’t be sure of coming every day at the right time. If I’m not here, David, will you do just as we did alone, and ask Him not to forget us ever, and to let me find out some day the things I can’t remember? I don’t want to be impatient; I know He knows best; but I do want to remember some day.”

“And I’m sure He’ll help thee some day,” answered David, with some fervor. “I’ll ask Him every day for thee, that I will; and He’ll be sure to answer when He’s ready. All good folks say so, and they must know best. I’ll come here every day when the tide turns, and then He’s sure to see me.”

So Bertie went away comforted, a sweet sense of fatherly love and protection seeming to overshadow him. It might be true enough that nobody wanted him, that he was of no use to anybody, but perhaps, if he tried to love and trust God more, to be “strong and of good courage,” to have faith in Him and wait quietly for His will to be done—perhaps then God would help him to be of some little use, to win some of the human love he felt to be lacking in his life, perhaps he might be able to fill the blank of which at times he was so painfully conscious.

When he went down to dessert with the Squire that evening, he was quite bright and conversational, and the Squire unbent as the child chatted away to him, and was betrayed into telling some stories of his own boyhood, a thing which he had not done for fifteen long years.

Bertie was immensely interested, and wanted them all told over again, after the fashion of childhood. As he went to bed that night, he detailed them with great accuracy to Mrs. Pritchard, who nodded her head several times and uttered oracular speeches to herself afterwards.

Bertie, like many children, awoke early in the morning, and hated lying in bed awake. The sunshine seemed to tempt him out into the glad world of spring-time, and he was generally out and about by six o’clock. No objection was made to his morning rambles, and some of his happiest hours were spent among the dewy trees and flowers of garden or park.

No adventure had ever befallen him so far during his early walk; but to-day it was destined to be more eventful than usual.

He was wandering through a secluded shrubbery path, when he suddenly heard a quick rustle amid the laurels just around the next corner, and quite expected to see either a gardener at work, or else one of the dogs hunting amid the bushes. Nothing less than a large animal could have made so much noise, yet when he turned the corner not a sign of any living thing was to be seen.

Bertie looked about him rather puzzled. He wondered if he had made a mistake; but he was quite sure he had heard the noise, and he began to peer about in curious fashion for the cause of it.

Suddenly his eyes encountered the laughing glance of another pair of very blue ones. Bertie quite jumped as this happened, and he pushed aside the wet laurel leaves to obtain a better view of the intruder. For one moment he had fancied it was Queenie’s face, but he saw directly that it was a boy who had forced his way into the midst of the laurel hedge, and had tried to conceal himself there. Yet the boy did not appear in the least abashed at being caught. The merry, laughing look upon his face disarmed Bertie at once.

“You will get very wet in there,” he remarked, by way of a beginning.

“I can’t be wetter than I am; I’m about drenched,” was the cheerful answer.

“Why don’t you come out, then, and get dried?”

“Because I’m a fugitive—in mortal peril of my life!” answered the boy, his whole face beaming with fun. “You can’t think what a funk I was in when I heard you coming.”

Bertie was rather puzzled.

“I shan’t hurt you,” he said.

“Nor betray me?”

“No, of course not. I don’t know what you mean.”

Phil laughed merrily.

“Well, then, I’ll come out, and chance the rest. It’s jolly uncomfortable in there;” and the boy pushed his way out amid fresh showers of dew, and stood before Bertie all wet and dripping, his curly hair bright with sparkling drops, his merry eyes brimful of fun.

The little boy stared at him in great surprise.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’ve told you once—a fugitive, a despairing and desperate character—so beware! And pray who are you, if I may make so bold?”

The child hesitated a moment.

“I’m Bertie,” he said, slowly.

“Bertie what?”

He shook his head.

“That’s all—only Bertie. I live with the Squire now.”

“You do, do you? You’re a little chap anyhow. I wonder who you are?”

“I don’t know myself,” answered Bertie, with great gravity; “and nobody else knows either. But I know who you are; you must be Queenie’s brother, you are so like her.”

Phil’s face put on a look of horror.

“Gracious goodness! I am betrayed! What will become of me now?”

Bertie was extremely puzzled; but he had a composed manner that concealed his bewilderment very well.

“What do you mean, and what are you doing here? I wish you’d tell me.”

Phil loved to talk better than almost anything else in the world, and he gladly plunged headlong into his tale. Bertie did not understand it all; but he understood enough to be immensely interested and to give Phil all the encouragement necessary to make him exceedingly diffuse and circumstantial. Only towards the close did Bertie’s face grow grave.

“But why don’t you go and tell them you’ve run away? Why does only Queenie know?”

“Oh, they know I’ve run away, only they don’t know where I am.”

“Why don’t you tell them?”

Phil explained his reason; but Bertie shook his head gravely.

“It looks as if you were afraid,” he said.

“Afraid of what?”

“Of being scolded or punished. Are you afraid?”

Phil’s face flushed.

“Afraid indeed! If you’d seen all the lickings I’ve had at school, you wouldn’t think I was.”

“Well, it looks as if you were then,” persisted Bertie, who knew his own mind when it was once made up.

Phil looked a little vexed; though it was not in his nature to be easily put out.

“That’s all rubbish! I only hide for the fun of it. You don’t suppose I’d funk anything really?”

“I didn’t think so till just now. I was thinking how brave you were.”

Phil was mollified by the compliment.

“Well, young un, you’re a pretty cool hand, I must say. Pray, what do you think I’d better do, under the circumstances?”

“I’d go straight off to your father and mother and tell them all about it,” answered Bertie, gravely. “I don’t think they could be very angry,—it was so funny, you know, especially about the monkey and his hat. I should say I didn’t want to go back to school any more at Dr. Steele’s, and I expect they’ll let you stop at home with Queenie, and they’ll see you’re not ashamed or afraid. If you hide here, perhaps somebody will find you, and then everybody will think you were afraid. I like people to be strong and of a good courage, and speak the truth always,—”

Bertie stopped suddenly. It seemed to him as if he were repeating words he had heard somebody say long ago, and the feeling puzzled him and made him stop short.

Phil was standing quite still now, thinking more than he often did. Thoughtlessness was his failing, and he was often and often led away by his high spirits; but he was not in the very least a naturally deceitful boy. Indeed, he had never for a moment considered that there was any deceit or cowardice in hiding away from his parents until it pleased him to show himself.

When, however, Bertie had put the idea into his head, he began to see that other people might not view his conduct in quite the same light that he did. It was possible even that there might be some truth in the little boy’s view of the case.

“Queenie will be awfully sold if I don’t keep to it,” he remarked, ruefully, for the idea was also very attractive to himself. “She thought it was the best fun in the world.”

Bertie said nothing. He was beginning to feel rather shy at having been so ready with his advice to the elder boy—the hero of such an adventure.

At last the silence was broken by Phil, who burst out laughing.

“After all, youngster, I believe you are right. Perhaps it would be rather mean and shabby to let them have all the bother of trying to hunt me down when I’m here all the time. Mother would be in a fright, perhaps, and father might, too—though it isn’t his way. Perhaps I’d best show myself, and tell the whole tale, as you say. I should not like anybody to think I hid away because I was afraid or ashamed, for I’m not.”

And Phil threw back his head and looked for a moment very like his father; so much so that Bertie admired him very much.

“Well, that’s settled then,” remarked Phil, after a pause. “I only hope Queenie won’t be in a great way about it. She can be very cross when she is put out, as I daresay you know. I wonder what time it is. My father and mother are never down before nine o’clock at earliest.”

“It’s a little past seven,” said Bertie; “I heard the clock strike just now.”

“Well, I can’t show myself till I can go to father straight. I must loaf about out of sight somewhere for the next hour or two; but I’m getting jolly hungry, I know.”

“Come and have some breakfast with me,” said Bertie, hospitably. “Mrs. Pritchard always gets me mine about half-past seven when I’ve been out—which is most mornings.”

Phil’s eyes lighted with satisfaction.

“Do you think the Squire would mind?”

“No, I don’t think he would a bit. He’s very kind always.”

“Why, so he is. I think I’ll come. I should like some breakfast awfully.”

Mrs. Pritchard knew “Master Phil” well by sight; and, though surprised at his sudden appearance, received him hospitably enough, and added a dish of fried bacon to Bertie’s simple meal, which was greatly enjoyed by both boys.

Whilst they sat at breakfast, the Squire happened to look in, as he sometimes did when Bertie was at his meals. Phil of course had to explain his presence there, which he did with so much spirit and boyish fun, that, although the Squire drew his thick eyebrows together and shook his head, he could not help giving vent to a gruff laugh; and when the part played by the monkey was told, Bertie could not restrain his delight, but broke into such a laugh as had not been heard from him since his arrival.

“And so Bertie persuaded you to give up your plan and speak out, did he?” quoth the Squire, when Phil had got to the end of his tale.

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil. “I’d never thought it could be wrong before, or cowardly, or anything like that; I only meant it for fun; but I guess the little chap is right.”

The Squire’s hand rested for a moment upon Bertie’s shoulder.

“What made you think of all that, my boy?” he asked.

Bertie got very red.

“I didn’t want him to be afraid,” he said; “I liked him, and I wanted him to tell the truth and not mind being punished.”

The Squire was not a man of many words, and he soon left the boys to themselves, but Bertie felt by a sort of instinct that he had pleased the old man by the part he had taken, and that made him feel glad and happy.

He enjoyed his hour’s talk with Phil, though he hardly spoke a word, for the schoolboy was a tremendous talker, and delighted to find so attentive a listener. To be sure, Bertie was only quite a little boy, but then he had proved that he had some sense and some pluck in him, and Phil was always ready to believe the best and not the worst of everybody he came across.

At nine o’clock he jumped up and said he must go, as his parents would be having breakfast soon. He promised to come back later and tell Bertie how he had fared, and he went off whistling gaily.

Phil possessed an amount of quiet assurance that stood him in good stead on occasions such as the present. If he felt any trepidation or anxiety as to his reception, he did not show it in the least, as he strolled into the dining-room with his hands in his pockets, and he confronted his astonished parents with his broadest and sunniest smile.

Lady Arbuthnot uttered a little shriek and fell back in her chair speechless; Sir Walter looked quickly up from his paper and drew his brows together darkly.

“And pray what is the meaning of all this, sir?” he asked, with his severest manner. “What do you mean by this disgraceful conduct?” and he laid his hand upon an open letter that lay beside his plate. Phil knew that the hand-writing was that of Dr. Steele.

“I’ve come home,” he answered, with a smile that was almost irresistible; “I really couldn’t stand it any longer, so I came home; and now, you know, they won’t have me back. You can’t think how jolly I feel.”

“Keep your impudence to yourself, Philip,” returned his father, with another frown. “A nice thing for a son of mine to be expelled from his school for gross misconduct!”

“I didn’t wait for that; I expelled myself,” answered Phil. “Please may I have some pigeon pie? I’ve been half starved ever since I left home. You can’t think what a lot of boys have come to old Steele’s lately, father; if you knew, I know you would not like to have your son there. That’s one reason why I decided to go, and, of course, when my mind was made up, I had to make the most of the occasion; such an opportunity might not occur again, you know. Mother dear, please let me have some coffee; nobody in the world can make coffee like you.”

And Phil spoke with such innocent sweetness, and drew up his chair with such a complete air of being master of the situation, that Sir Walter suddenly exploded into a laugh.

That laugh told Phil that he had won the day. He always knew—the rascal—that he held a soft place in his father’s heart, and he had presumed upon this when he had resolved upon quitting his school with flying colors.

“You know, father,” he explained, with inimitable gravity, “I really want a rest before going to Eton. I have overworked my brain, I think, and I am certain it will be a great thing for me to have a long holiday before I begin work again. And then, you know, it will be such an advantage to Queenie to have me at home. She gets sadly spoiled in term-time, with being the only child at home and having no brothers to keep her in order. You see, I have taken a very comprehensive view of the situation, and have thought of every one before myself.”

“I see that you are the coolest and most impudent rascal that ever trod shoe-leather,” retorted his father, with a sudden laugh. “Now, be off with you to your own premises; and mind, if I keep you at home, that you behave yourself. A nice state of things, to be sure! You deserve the best thrashing you ever had in your life. Now, be off sharp; and I must go and answer this precious missive as best I can. What a trouble boys are, to be sure!”

CHAPTER IX.
QUEENIE’S IDEAS.

QUEENIE had slept but restlessly upon the night following Phil’s unexpected return. She had been much excited by his sudden appearance, and still more by the weighty sense of importance imposed upon her by the necessity of keeping the secret.

Queenie loved a romance and a mystery better than anything in the world besides; and the task of keeping Phil hidden away for several days, and of secretly supplying him with food and all other necessaries, seemed to be the most delightful and romantic occupation that could possibly be desired.

She made many plans and revolved many ideas in her busy little brain as she lay awake in bed that night.

Where was Phil to hide? Where would he be safest? Where could he be certain of remaining undiscovered, and yet near enough for her to have easy access to his hiding-place and be able to visit him at will without attracting attention or suspicion by doing so?

For a long time this problem remained unsolved; but at last a gleam of inspiration burst upon her.

“The ruin!” she cried, speaking aloud in her excitement, though luckily there was no one near enough to hear. “The ruin, of course!—down in the underground part. He will never be seen there, and I can carry him food whenever I like. I often play in the ruin. Nurse will never think anything about it if I go there every day.”

“The ruin” was the remains of an old tower that might once have been a large building, but of which only a very small portion now remained.

Children always seem oddly attracted by anything in the way of a tumble-down building, and all the young Arbuthnots were much delighted with their ruin. Queenie thought it would be a lovely place to hide Phil in, never considering in her youthful inexperience how exceedingly cold and damp and uncomfortable would be the accommodation afforded by the ancient cellar of the ruined habitation.

When she had settled all the details of her plan with great exactness, she settled herself to sleep, and awoke in the morning brimful of zeal and energy, longing for their satisfactory accomplishment.

At breakfast-time she watched her opportunity, and conveyed supplies from the table to her own private cupboard, and restricted her own share of the delicacies offered to the minimum, in order that Phil should have plenty. Queenie’s nursery breakfast was a less simple affair than Bertie’s, and she was able to set aside sufficient good things to feel quite comfortable as to Phil’s morning repast.

Queenie did not go out till ten o’clock, as she always had to practise her music and do some reading with her nurse between nine and ten. To-day she found the task sadly irksome. She was so inattentive that nurse had to speak to her again and again; and as for the tiresome scales, they seemed as if they could not go right this morning, and Queenie got so cross that she fairly belabored the poor old piano with two angry little fists, making it give out the most discordant sounds.

“Really, Miss Queenie,” said nurse, looking up from her work in surprise, “I cannot think what has come to you to-day.”

But there was no time to say more, or for Queenie to answer, for outside the door was heard the sound of scampering steps—steps that could belong to no one but a boy, and Queenie turned quite pale and jumped off the music-stool with a little cry.

Next moment the door was burst open, and in rushed Phil like a whirlwind.

“Phil!” cried Queenie, with accents of something like despair,—“Phil, how could you? Don’t you know nurse is always here now?”

But Phil had caught her round the waist, and was executing one of his impromptu war-dances.

“It’s all right, Queenie, all right! I’ve shown up and reported myself, and made it up with everybody; and father says you may have a holiday in honor of my triumphant return; so get your hat and come along. I’m dying to go all over the place. I’ve not seen anything yet.”

Queenie was so utterly astonished by the turn matters had taken, and by the overturning of all her cherished and carefully-laid plans, that she remained quite silent, and let her nurse put on her out-door things without uttering a single word. To tell the truth, Queenie was not quite pleased at Phil’s conduct. She felt that he ought to have consulted her before changing his mind so entirely, and she was a good deal disappointed at being robbed of her share of the romantic drama she had planned.

Phil, however, was in such capital spirits that he was a long time in observing Queenie’s displeasure, and when he did find out the cause of her annoyance, he detailed to her his morning’s adventure and the arguments Bertie had brought forward against the proposed scheme.

But when Queenie heard that Bertie’s counsel had been, as it were, preferred before her own, she felt even more annoyed than she had done before, and tossed her little head with her grandest air.

“So Bertie is to be your lord and master, is he?” she asked, scornfully. “Well, I did think you had more spirit than that.”

Phil laughed good-humoredly.

“He’s a nice little chap enough; and I’m glad I took his advice now. It would have been jolly dull and uncomfortable hiding away, and perhaps father would have been more angry than he is now. He’d most likely have thought I was afraid, as Bertie said, and that would quite have spoiled it.”

“You would not have been a bit dull or uncomfortable. I should have hidden you in the ruin, and brought you everything you wanted, and stayed with you ever so long. It would have been just like a game in history; and now you’ve gone and spoilt everything, and it’s all Bertie’s fault.”

“Well, this is much jollier anyhow,” cried Phil, who was of a more practical turn than his little sister.

“Don’t you be cross, Queenie; that will spoil everything. Tell me who Bertie is. I can’t think where he’s come from, and he doesn’t seem to know himself.”

Queenie did not wish to quarrel with Phil, of whom she was very fond; but she registered a mental vow to let Bertie know what she thought of him, and to make him suffer for having been the cause of her disappointment.

Phil’s question was answered in very scornful tones.

“Who is Bertie? I’m sure I don’t know, nor anybody else. He was washed ashore one day, and lived at the Wickhams’ cottage for ever so many days. David is his great friend, so I suppose he was a common boy himself once. But the Squire has adopted him, and now he gives himself airs, and sets up for being a gentleman. I don’t think much of him. I shan’t play with him any more.”

Phil laughed. He was always amused when Queenie put on her airs, and rather admired her for it, unless they were directed against himself. However, he made her tell him all she knew about Bertie, and found the curious story very interesting.

“Poor little chap!” he said, kindly; “it must be horrid to forget everything like that. He’s a nice little fellow. I shall go and see him, and tell him how I got on with my father. He’ll like to know that I didn’t get much scolded. Will you come too?”

Queenie was not best pleased at this arrangement, but she preferred to go rather than to be left behind, and so they climbed the fence together and went boldly up to the front door to inquire for Bertie.

Bertie, however, was not at home. He had gone down to the shore, Pritchard thought, and Phil thought he should like to go to the shore too.

“He’s gone to see his precious David, I suppose,” said Queenie, disdainfully. “He likes him better than he likes anybody else, and I don’t admire his taste.”

“Why not?” asked Phil, who did not share his sister’s exclusive views.

“David is a fisherman’s son,” said the little lady, with some scorn.

“Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.”

“I don’t know what you call the worse. I know I shouldn’t care to play with him.”

“Well, I don’t mind,” answered Phil. “I like playing with any boys, if they’re jolly and all that; but of course you needn’t if you don’t like.”

Queenie felt rather angry with Phil; but she did not say anything. She began to wonder if after all it would be so very nice having him at home all the summer. He had a way of unconsciously snubbing her that she did not care for at all.

When they reached the sandhills they saw the two boys sitting on the shore, as they often did, not talking much, but enjoying the feeling of being together. Phil rushed forward with a whoop and a bound, and Bertie sprang up to ask him all about what had passed; and as soon as the story was told a regular game of play ensued between the boys, which brought the light to Bertie’s eyes and the color to his cheeks, and seemed at once to transform him into a new being.

Queenie stood a little apart, longing to join in the fun, but restrained by two powerful reasons: first, she thought it beneath her dignity to condescend to play with a poor little boy like David; and, in the second, she did not mean to speak to Bertie until she had shown her displeasure at his conduct in daring to advise Phil to a course of action that had robbed her of much anticipated fun.

Bertie grew tired of the game before the elder boys, who were stronger than he; and then he came and stood by Queenie, who looked, as he thought, rather dull. Queenie did not look at him or speak to him; but Bertie was very straightforward and simple-minded, and did not in the least know that he was in the little lady’s black books.

“Why don’t you play too?” he asked.

“Why should I?”

“I thought you liked playing. You said yesterday you were always wishing you had some boys to play with.”

Queenie’s chin went up into the air.

“Some boys,” she answered, grandly. “I did not say any boys.”

Bertie was a little puzzled by this rather fine distinction.

“Are we any boys?” he asked.

“Rather like it, I think,” answered Queenie, a little put out by Bertie’s simplicity.

“You wanted to play with me yesterday,” remarked Bertie. “I suppose you are rather changeable, aren’t you?”

Queenie looked exceedingly angry.

“I suppose you are a very impertinent little boy, and don’t know your manners.”

Bertie saw now that Queenie was angry. He began to think she was not quite so nice as he had once thought. He judged it wise to change the subject.

“Aren’t you very glad Phil has come home? I think he is such a nice boy!”

This praise of her favorite brother soothed Queenie’s ruffled feelings a little. Moreover, she was finding it a little dull to be so cross. She felt that she was spoiling her own fun, without being half as dignified as she could wish.

“Yes, he is a very nice boy,” she answered, with more warmth; “only I think it is a great pity he did not hide away as we intended. It would have been great fun; and I can’t think why you came and spoiled it all.”

Bertie looked a little shy, but he did not offer any excuse for his conduct.

This silence encouraged Queenie, who continued, with judicial severity,—

“I think you were a very interfering little boy.”

Bertie was silent for some time, and then he said, slowly,—

“I didn’t mean to interfere. I only wanted him to go on being brave.”

“I should think he wouldn’t want you to teach him that.”

“It didn’t sound very brave to hide away and make everybody frightened and miserable. You would have been very unhappy if you had not known where he was, and so would other people. I don’t think it brave to frighten people and make them unhappy just because it’s fun.”

Queenie made no reply. She was not angry, yet she rather felt as if she ought to be.

“What made you think of all that, Bertie?”

“I don’t know. It seemed to come into my head. I suppose somebody told me once.”

“Are you brave?” asked Queenie, suddenly.

Bertie shook his head gravely.

“I don’t know. I want to be; but I don’t know if I am. I try.”

“How do you try?”

The color rose in the child’s face, and he turned his head a little away whilst he made his answer.

“I try not to fret and be unhappy because—because I haven’t any home or name or anything. I try to love God, and ask Him to make things come right when He thinks best. I want to be good, and not to be impatient or ungrateful or naughty. I can’t say it properly; but I do try.”

Bertie stopped short. He had not made his meaning at all clear, yet he knew himself what he had in his mind.

Queenie was very much surprised at being talked to so seriously. She had never in her life been troubled by thoughts such as these. It seemed to her rather awful and unnatural.

“Bertie,” she said, rather severely, “are you saying all that because you think it sounds fine?”

He looked very much surprised.

“All what?”

“Why, all that about God. You can’t really care about Him, you know.”

Bertie was silent. He knew that he did love God, and did believe that He was taking care of him; but he did not in the least know how to say it all to Queenie.

“Yes, I do,” he answered, after a long pause.

“How? I don’t understand.”

Bertie was silent again, and then said, slowly,—

“Perhaps, if you’d got nobody belonging to you, you would understand. I can’t explain; only it just seems as if everything else had gone but God. He is there always—and I’ve nobody now but Him.”

Bertie’s lips quivered, and Queenie was touched.

“Never mind, Bertie,” she said, quickly; “it will all come right some day; and I’ll never tease you or be cross any more.”

A smile stole over Bertie’s face.

“That will be nice,” he said.

“And Phil is never cross. We’ll both help you to be happy. Only you must not be too good, you know, or we shall be frightened of you.”

Bertie’s face was bright again now. He did not quite understand Queenie’s words, but he saw that she was friendly again.

“You shall come to see us soon,” she said. “Have you any lessons to do?”

“No; the doctor says I mustn’t do any yet; but I read in the Squire’s study sometimes.”

“I wish I mightn’t do any either,” said Queenie, enviously; “but I don’t suppose I shall do much, now Phil is at home, so we shall have plenty of time to play together.”

Here Phil came rushing up, full of plans for future fun. David had said that his father’s boat would soon be back now, and that then they could go out rowing or sailing together. David knew all the creeks and islands along the coast, the cliffs where the sea-gulls bred, and all the places where fun was to be obtained.

Phil was utterly and entirely delighted, and as he went home he confided to Queenie that running away from school was the best thing in the world.

CHAPTER X.
BERTIE’S NEW FRIENDS.

THE friendship between the children in the two adjoining houses, begun under rather exceptional circumstances, led to a considerable degree of intimacy as the summer wore on.

The Squire encouraged the friendship, as likely to be of advantage to Bertie. Sir Walter Arbuthnot had no objection to it, and his wife soon became convinced that her children could take no harm from associating with the little waif.

So Bertie went as often as he chose to the other house, and his nurseries were always open to his new friends, so that hardly a day passed without a meeting at one place or the other.

Bertie was fond of Phil, whose constant flow of high spirits and imperturbable good humor made him a favorite everywhere; but Queenie was not always quite so easy to get on with, and although she fascinated him by her imperious ways, and made him do her bidding submissively and gladly, yet he was not sure that he was very fond of her always.

Queenie was undeniably disobedient. Phil often broke rules and disregarded his parents’ commands; but then, with him this was the result rather of thoughtlessness than of downright, deliberate disobedience. I do not say that he would always deny himself a wish because he remembered just in the midst of his fun that its attainment would necessitate a breach of rule. Phil was lax in his ideas on such subjects, as are many boys of his age; but he was not in the least deceitful, and he would never lay plans and plot and scheme to evade detection, as his little sister often did; and if reminded at the outset that what he meditated doing involved disobedience, he would often abandon the idea of his own accord.

Queenie, however, loved her own way, and hated control too much to be as amenable. She had a deeply-rooted belief that rules were only made in order to be broken, and that, so long as she could break them without detection, it was all quite right and fair. She had been spoiled from her babyhood, and it was perhaps no great wonder that she had come to look upon herself as a person of such great importance that she could hardly do wrong; still, from some cause or another, this was the view she held, and it led her into many faults, of which not the least was disobedience.

Bertie, who, without quite knowing why, was always very determined not to disobey anybody who had the right to command him, noticed this failing of Queenie’s very much, and it troubled him a good deal, but he had not spoken of it, for he knew now by experience that the little lady was very intolerant of criticism, and that to offer it would be pretty sure to provoke a quarrel.

The Squire’s rules were few; but they were scrupulously obeyed by Bertie. It is true he had forced his way into the library again and again after having been told not to go there without leave; but that had seemed to be with him a matter rather of instinct than a voluntary act. The library was the one place where, from the first moment, he had seemed at home, and his haunting of the room appeared to be something rather outside of his own will.

In other matters Bertie was perfectly docile and obedient. Mrs. Pritchard was loud in his praises, and Queenie many times held him up to rather merciless ridicule, because he insisted on returning home at the time he had been told, or declined to share in some escapade because he thought the Squire would not approve of it. But Bertie, in spite of his quiet ways and dislike to anything like a quarrel, could be firm enough when he chose, and Queenie soon learned to know that he could “hold his own” against her, as Phil called it, if he meant to do so.

This often annoyed the little girl at the moment; but it made her respect Bertie the more in her heart, and the children were very good friends, in spite of their little differences, and the companionship of playmates of his own age and station was of undoubted advantage to the lonely boy.

Still, it may be doubted whether Bertie’s happiest hours were not those spent by him alone with David wandering over the sandhills, or watching with a sense of reverent expectancy for the daily turning of the tide. All the child’s deeper thoughts were locked away in his own breast when he was playing with Queenie and Phil; but they were brought out quite naturally when David and he were alone together, and many earnest talks were held by the margin of the wide-flowing sea, and many prayers went up from two faithful, patient little hearts, that the great loving Father above, who never forgot to preserve the fisherman’s cottage from danger, would look down and “remember Bertie again.”

For as the weeks rolled silently away, it seemed as if Bertie would never “remember himself.” His health improved gradually, and he was active and merry, though always in a quiet way; but no gleam from the past ever lighted up his mind; he was still as ignorant of his real name and state in life as he had been when he lay unconscious in the fisherman’s cottage, and the vague impressions that used sometimes to flit across his brain were growing now more rare and more faint.

Dr. Lighton sometimes shook his head and looked disturbed as he heard from time to time of the state of the case. One day he began a sort of half apology to the Squire for having, so to speak, imposed upon him the charge of the child; but he was not allowed to go far in his speech.

“Don’t name it, Lighton, I beg you. It is a matter of no moment to me. The child is welcome to his food and shelter. He is no trouble to me, and the servants seem to enjoy having him.”

“Well, but there is the future to consider,” said Dr. Lighton. “You are very generous and kind, but if this oblivion of the past continues, what of the future?”

The Squire waved his hand as if to dismiss the subject.

“The future, I find, generally manages to take care of itself. I have no doubt he will eventually remember something by which we can identify him; and if not, why, I must do what I can; I am ready to take my chance.”

“You are very good,” said the young doctor. “I had no idea of letting you in for anything so serious.”

The Squire would not let him say more.

“The house is big enough for us both,” he said, rather curtly, “and that is all that matters. He is welcome to stay till he is claimed.”

So Bertie stayed on in the unquestioning confidence of childhood, and at times he would almost forget that all his life had not been spent at the old Manor House.

For the most part Bertie was happy enough in the society of little companions not much older than himself; but he had his own troubles to bear, as all of us have, and one of these was of a rather curious nature.

The boating excursions to which Phil had so eagerly looked forward became in due course a reality. The fisherman, David’s father, and his two big sons, returned from their long excursion in search of herrings, and they were quite ready to take out parties of pleasure in their large boat, or to let the little one to the boys to row themselves along the coast, provided David were of the party.

Bertie had looked forward as impatiently as anybody for the time to come when they could go out sailing or rowing over the sea he loved so well; and yet, when the day came, and he found himself in the boat, gliding over the shining water, he was seized with a horrible and unconquerable sense of terror; his agitation became so great that the boat had to be put back to land, so that he could be put ashore and no determination on his own part, or persuasions or ridicule from others, ever induced him to repeat the experiment. Again and again he made up his mind that it was all nonsense, and that he would conquer himself, and again and again the first sight of the boat would bring back all the nameless horrors which he could neither understand nor drive away. The very thought of trusting himself to those frail timbers was agony to him, and nothing could bring him to the point of entering the boat again.

Phil and Queenie laughed at him, and David was quite distressed that he should miss all the pleasant hours the rest spent upon the water; but they were all kind each in a different way, and Bertie was allowed to please himself in peace until the other big brothers came from school, and with them his troubles began.

Walter, Bernard, and Ralph Arbuthnot were strong lads, high-spirited, full of fun and mischief, and quite determined, like most boys fresh from school, to get all the fun out of the holidays that they possibly could. They were not hard-hearted or unkindly boys, but they loved to tease and to play tricks on anybody who gave them the chance, and they found in little Bertie a sort of victim whom they sadly plagued, without having any idea of the pain they inflicted upon him.

He took it all so quietly that they fancied he did not feel it. When they laughed at him for being nameless and homeless, a sort of “outcast” and “vagabond,” he never made any reply, and they had no notion that their taunts cut into his very heart and brought back all that sense of misery and desolation that he had gradually been outgrowing with time.

They liked the little boy in reality, although he was so different from themselves that they could not help poking fun at him. They had no wish to be unkind, but they did not understand him in the least, and had no idea that he was not as careless and “thick-skinned” as themselves.

It was some time before they discovered Bertie’s horror of the water. The arrival of a very favorite uncle soon after the commencement of the holidays took up a great deal of their time and attention; and so long as Uncle Fred was available to play tennis or cricket or take long walks or rides with them, they wanted nothing else, and the boating was given up for a season.

Mr. Frederick Arbuthnot was always very kind to Bertie whenever the child appeared, but the little boy rather shunned the Court just now, for he dreaded the banter of the bigger boys, and he fancied that he was not wanted by any one.

He returned to his old pastime of wandering over the sandhills alone or with David; but a sort of melancholy had come over him, and he often felt unspeakably lonely and desolate. The only thing that seemed to do him any good was to repeat again and again the words of unchanging promise that he had learned from David’s card that Sunday long ago.

One day, as the two boys were sitting together under the shadow of the boat, they heard the sound of trampling footsteps and many voices, and the whole party from the big house rushed down to the shore and proceeded unceremoniously to lay hands upon the boat, ordering David to run and fetch oars and rudder whilst they launched the craft.

Bertie stood aside and watched them run the boat down to the water. He learned from Queenie that Uncle Fred was coming down shortly, and was going to take them a long sail or row, and she asked Bertie if he would not like to come too.

“You know we shall be quite safe with Uncle Fred. He was once a sailor himself.”

But Bertie shook his head with a troubled look. He would so much have liked to go, had it not been for his fears; but he dared not. He knew he should be miserable as soon as he felt himself upon the water.

Phil came up at the moment to make the same suggestion that Queenie had done, and the attention of the other boys was attracted, and they learned for the first time Bertie’s horror of the water.

“Why, that must never be allowed to go on!” cried Walter, with a twinkle in his eye. “Bertie will grow up a pitiful coward if we don’t take him in hand. Little boys who are afraid must get over their fears. Come along, Bertie, and get into that boat at once. I’ll guarantee you shall be safe.”

But Bertie shrank back, looking pale and scared.

“I don’t want to,” he said, quickly.

“Little boys can’t always do what they want,” quoth Bernard, sententiously; “we were brought up to believe that, if you weren’t. Don’t you be a fool, Bertie, or you’ll never be good for anything.”

“If you once get over the funks, you’ll enjoy it like anything,” urged Phil. “Don’t be silly, Bertie; they’ll make you do it, and you’d better go peaceable than not.”

Bertie was horribly frightened; an unreasoning panic had seized him; he made a rush to try and escape, but nothing could have been more fatal to his hopes than that. He was caught in two minutes, and the excitement of the chase and of his opposition made his captors absolutely determined now to work their will upon him. A very little is enough to rouse a boy’s instincts of tyranny, and to the Arbuthnots, who did not know what nerves were, Bertie’s cowardice seemed utterly despicable. Indeed, they firmly believed that they were doing him a real service in putting it down with a firm hand.

“Here he is!” cried Walter, who was holding the prisoner in an iron clasp. “This sort of thing won’t do, you know. Who has a piece of whip-cord?”

Two or three pieces were speedily produced, and the boys proceeded deliberately to tie Bertie’s hands and feet firmly together. His terrified struggles only served to strengthen their purpose and to draw the knots tighter, whilst the sight of his obvious fear convinced them that they were doing the best thing possible in teaching him how foolish it was.

Queenie and Phil took no part in the matter. They were rather sorry for Bertie, but both thought their own brothers perfectly right in their estimate of the case; and when Walter and Bernard took the captive up bodily, carried him down to the water’s edge, and deposited him in the boat, they could not help joining in the triumphant laugh that was raised, and they thought Bertie quite stupid and bad-tempered not to enjoy the joke himself.

Uncle Fred had not as yet appeared, and some instinct warned the boys that Bertie’s “lesson” had better be concluded before his arrival. David was just coming from the hut with his load, and the boys ran to meet him and took the oars from him, for they were not quite certain what he might do if Bertie appealed to him for help.

Bertie, however, lay quite still, his face as white as death, his eyes fixed with terrified intensity upon the dancing water that was ruffled to-day by a fresh breeze. When the boys pushed out into deep water, he only shivered convulsively, but did not utter a sound.

The big lads were rather disappointed. They expected more of a “scene,” and betrayed the nature of their true feelings by trying to add to the child’s silent yet visible terror; for, had they only been actuated by the wish to benefit him, they might surely have dispensed with any such unnecessary demonstration.

Queenie and Phil had remained on shore, and the big boys felt themselves entire masters of the situation.

“Can you swim, Bertie?” asked Walter.

The child shook his head, but said nothing.

“Because, you know, you should learn. It would help you better than anything to overcome your foolish terror. Now I’ve heard that there’s nothing like being pitched into deep water at once to teach a fellow to swim, especially when he’s small.”

“To be sure that’s the way!” cried Ralph. “I know I read in a book that little niggers were always taught that way. I don’t believe it ever fails.”

“We might try, any way,” suggested Bernard, gravely; “and there’s no time like the present. You see, if it should fail, no great harm would be done. People always come up three times before they drown, and we could catch hold of him when he came up if he could not manage to swim. It’s a nice warm day, and I always think the sea is more buoyant when it’s a little rough.”

The boat was rocking very much with the combined roughness of the sea and the restlessness of the boys. Bertie could not hold by anything, for the whip-cord resisted his most violent efforts to free himself, and in his terror he fancied every moment that he should be rolled out into the green, terrible water. Of course there was not the least danger of this, but fear knows no laws, and the horror of his position was almost more than the child’s nerves could stand. There was water, too, at the bottom of the boat, and the lapping of the waves against the sides made him certain that it leaked and that they would soon be swamped.

But the idea of being thrown overboard was the most awful of all, and he was firmly convinced that his tormentors were quite capable of doing what they proposed. So that when Ralph sprang towards him, making the boat lurch horribly, he was certain his last moment had come, and, uttering a stifled cry, he fell back senseless.

CHAPTER XI.
UNCLE FRED.

THE boys were frightened enough themselves now, and their only thought was to get to land as quickly as possible and find help for Bertie. They hardly knew whether they were most relieved or most alarmed to see that their uncle had now come down to the shore, and was standing with Queenie and Phil, waiting for the boat to come back.

They were glad he had come, because he would know what to do with Bertie; but they had an uneasy feeling that he would not approve their treatment of him, and their own consciences began to tell them that they had not acted well towards the helpless child.

But they had not much time for thinking or for planning excuses. Five minutes of hard rowing brought them to the shore, and Uncle Fred hailed them in his hearty way, and was waiting to help them to run the boat aground.

“Where’s Bertie?” cried Queenie. “Did he mind the water to-day?”

Walter’s face was very red.

“I think he’s fainted, or something. I never guessed he’d be scared like that.”

Uncle Fred looked searchingly at the speaker, and then, catching a glimpse of the huddled-up figure in the bow, he stooped down and lifted out the unconscious child.

Bertie’s face was deadly pale, and quite rigid. His wrists were bleeding where the cord had cut into them.

David uttered a frightened cry; and Uncle Fred’s face was very stern.

“What does all this mean?”

The boys were silent; and Queenie tried to make some explanation that should also be an exculpation; but as soon as her uncle had gleaned the bare facts of the case, he cut her short very unceremoniously.

“Go home, all of you! There will be no boating to-day. I have nothing to say to you now. Another time we must talk of your cowardly and cruel conduct. Go away now at once. You must not be in sight when the child recovers. Go! I am very much displeased with you all.”

The boys and their sister moved slowly away in a shamefaced manner, very unlike their usual rattling pace. They heartily wished they had never indulged their teasing propensities to the extent of trying to give Bertie a lesson. Their own good feeling told them they had been wrong, and they were terribly vexed at having incurred Uncle Fred’s displeasure. Queenie and Phil wished now that they had followed their first impulse, and interfered on Bertie’s behalf; but they had been ashamed to do so at first, and now the mischief was done.

Meantime, Uncle Fred had cut the cords that bound Bertie, and had bathed his face with vinegar and water that David brought from the cottage. Very soon Bertie heaved a long, shuddering sigh, and slowly opened his eyes. He did not at first seem to know where he was or who was with him; but after Uncle Fred had spoken to him once or twice kindly, reassuring words, the child appeared to recover himself, and put out a small hand, saying questioningly,—

“Uncle Fred?”

The young man smiled at hearing himself so addressed, but he was pleased to be accepted on such terms.

“Yes, my little man, it is Uncle Fred; and if Uncle Fred had only been here a few minutes earlier, all this should not have happened. I am very sorry those rascally nephews of mine have given you such a fright; but you will be a brave boy, I know, and not think of it more than you can help, and you will be none the worse in the long run.”

Bertie remembered all about it now, and he began to tremble in spite of the kindly pressure of Uncle Fred’s arm round him.

“What is the matter, my child? You are not afraid now?”

“No—not exactly—if they won’t do it again.”

“I will take care they do not.”

“They said they would throw me in to teach me to swim,” and the child’s teeth chattered at the bare recollection.

Uncle Fred muttered some words that Bertie did not catch, and then said aloud,—

“Never you mind what they said. They shall never have another chance.”

Something in the tone warned Bertie that his tormentors were going to have rather a warm time of it, as they themselves would phrase it, from this favorite uncle of theirs.

He was sorry then, and looked up suddenly with appealing eyes.

“Please don’t be angry with them. I don’t think they understand. You see, it never happened to them.”

“What never happened to them?”

“Why, the water coming in—the cold, dreadful water—rising higher and higher—and the people crying and shouting and rushing to the boats;” and Bertie pressed his hands into his eyes, as if to shut out some terrible picture.

Uncle Fred remained long silent, hoping the child would go on, and perhaps utter words that might be a clue for his identification; but he said no more, and presently the young man asked,—

“And did all that happen to you, Bertie?”

“Ye—es—unless I dreamed it;” and Bertie slowly took his hands from his face and looked wonderingly up at Uncle Fred.

“And when did it happen? Just before you came here?”

But the child shook his head with a look of distress.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember. But in the boat it seemed just like it.”

Uncle Fred was much interested; but he judged it better to say no more on such an exciting topic. Bertie’s eyes glowed strangely, and his face, a little while ago so deadly pale was now flushed and hot, and the little frame still quivered with excitement, and perhaps with fear. It was evident that the child needed soothing, and he purposely turned the conversation into a channel that could not but be safe.

“Bertie,” he said, gravely, yet very kindly, “when you are frightened and troubled about anything, do you remember to ask God to take care of you and to make you brave and strong?”

Bertie looked up quickly and wistfully into the face above him.

“I do sometimes; I pray to God every day; but when I get frightened, I think I forget.”

“Do not forget again then, my child; for you will never pray to God in vain. He never forgets.”

Bertie’s glance was more touchingly appealing than before. It made Uncle Fred ask,—

“What is it, my child?”

Bertie’s lip quivered.