Bertie glanced up into the face above him with eyes full of love. “Ever since you let me be your little boy,” he answered, with emphasis, “I have been quite happy.” “And before?” “Before I was happy sometimes—when I was with you; but I was often very lonely. If I hadn’t felt sure that God would take care of me, I think I should have been miserable sometimes.” “But you were sure of that?” Bertie paused and reflected. “By and by I was—not just at first—but by and by. And then I found out something for me to do, and then all the rest came easy.” “What did you find to do?” “I found out that you were lonely and unhappy, and I wanted to comfort you,” answered the child, very softly. “Because you had no little children of your own left. I didn’t think at first that I could; but by and by you said I did.” “Yes, my child. We were given to one another, to fill, as it were, the blank that God had thought fit to make in both of our lives. We must trust Him now to leave us to one another, and not to part us unless that too is a part of His holy will.” Bertie looked up timidly. “I could never leave you now, papa.” The Squire looked down at him with a smile. “I hope not, my little son; but it is possible you may some day remember your own parents, and that they may want you back. But whatever happens we know will be for the best, and we must always be strong and of a good courage, and do what is right. No happiness ever comes from shirking duty.” Bertie looked up wistfully. “You have not heard anything, have you, about me?” The Squire smiled reassuringly. “No, no, my little boy; I am only speaking of a possible future, and one that we ought perhaps to wish for. But I think it quite possible, under all the circumstances of the case, that your parents, did we succeed in tracing them, would allow you to remain in my care as my little adopted son; and we do not even know that they are living, for they might well have been lost that stormy night when you were washed ashore at the fisherman’s hut.” Bertie’s face was very grave. He did not often speculate now upon the past, and the Squire rarely alluded to the subject. He was quite content to dwell in the present, and it seemed highly probable, as Dr. Lighton had said, that he would never awake to recollection, but that the oblivion of childhood would sweep away the vanished past, even when the physical injury had gradually cured itself. It was impossible for the child to wish for any change. He was so entirely happy in his new home, and loved his father so devotedly, that there was no room in his heart for the vague yearnings that had troubled him once, and he felt as if he belonged by birthright to the place he now occupied. And new interests and pleasures were in store for him now in the return of the Arbuthnots to their long-deserted house.