“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.”