“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.”