the child, and from that day till a month or two ago she entertained no doubts of his death. My story gave her hope, and the sight of that picture has put away the last doubt. That is her little Ronald, the child who has been dead and is alive again, has been lost and is found.” Uncle Fred’s own voice quivered a little as he concluded his tale, and his wife commanded hers with difficulty. “Where is my boy?” she asked. “He is out with your little nephew and niece, Mrs. Arbuthnot,” answered the Squire; “but he will be home again in the course of an hour or two. You will wait and see him of course. You will let my housekeeper bring you some tea.” The Squire spoke with some constraint of manner. It was easy to see that he was a good deal moved. The mother seemed to divine his feelings by the very depth of her own. He had risen whilst the tale had been told, and was now standing with his back towards them, looking out upon the sunny garden, with eyes that saw nothing of its brightness. He started when a soft touch was laid upon his arm. He was confronted by a sweet face, tremulous with tears. “I have not thanked you yet for all your goodness to my boy.” “No need, I assure you, my dear madam; he has done a hundredfold more for me than I have done for him.” The tone was hoarse, and the words a little abrupt; but the mother looked beneath the surface. “Does that mean that you would miss the child if I were to take him away from you?” The Squire started at the question, and looked keenly into the face before him. He forgot that the situation so very new to him had been faced in all its bearings for many long weeks by the two who had pierced together the history of the lost child, and who knew well the sad story of the Squire’s lonely lot. “Miss him!” he ejaculated, almost harshly, as a strong man often does when under the influence of some sudden emotion. “If you had known what it was to lose five children and a wife within ten short days, to live fifteen long years alone and desolate, and then to adopt and make your own a child that seemed given to you by a special providence, one whom you had the right to make your own and love as your own. If your old age had been cheered by the presence of such a child, and then he too was taken from you”— The Squire stopped short abruptly, and then in a gentler tone he added,— “Forgive me, my dear madam; I have no right to say all this. I have been taken by surprise, and I live so much alone, that I fear I forget myself at times. You must bear with an old man whom you have taken unawares. I cannot rejoice at your news for my own sake, but I will endeavor to do so for yours and the child’s. I will not be more selfish than nature and habit made me.” Mrs. Arbuthnot endeavored to speak, but her voice failed her, and she looked towards her husband.