“Is this the expression of your thoughts, madam?” he asked, very gently. “Yes; my husband has only explained to you what has many times passed between us on the subject. You know Dr. Lighton is his correspondent, and from him we have heard much of your great goodness to my little boy, and of the tie that seems to exist between you. My gratitude would be but ill-expressed were I to try and break that tie. The child had never known a father’s love until he found it in your home, for his father died when he was but an infant. Let him continue to feel that love about him, as well as that of the mother he has so strangely forgotten, and whom even now he may not be able to recall. Let us leave matters for the present as they now stand, and in the future be guided by the course of events and by the development of the boy’s character. If he disappoints you, his mother’s home will always be open to him. If he continues to occupy the place of a son to you, I will not take him away. He can be my boy as well as yours, and there shall be no jealousy between us.” The words were spoken quietly, yet with much feeling, and the Squire accepted the sacrifice in the spirit in which it was made. “Let the boy’s good be our chief concern, my dear madam,” he answered. “My gratitude to you is very great, and shall be shown in care for the child over whose future you still allow me to exercise some control. Believe me, your goodness shall not be abused. You will not find me exacting. If you will spare me as much of his society as you can, and let me love him as my own, I shall be satisfied and grateful, even though you may wish to change your mind by and by and receive him under your own roof.” The mother understood by instinct the nature of the man with whom she had to deal. She smiled very sweetly as she answered,— “I see very plainly that there will be no jealousy between us. For the present let all be as it is. If the child knows me for his mother, he shall still remain with you, unless—” She paused, and added, quickly, “And if not, and I have to tell him all, he is not likely to feel any wish to leave you for me. It will be very strange to be as a stranger to my little Ronald. I wonder—” But the sentence was not concluded. There was a sudden stir in the hall without, and Dr. Lighton came in hurriedly. “What is it?” he asked, quickly. “Where is the child?” “What child?” “Bertie. Has he not come yet? They tell me there has been an accident on the cliffs.” Two faces blanched visibly at these words. The Squire took a quick step forward, and asked hastily,— “What do you mean?” “I hardly know myself yet. Little Miss Arbuthnot came galloping up to my door ten minutes ago, to say that Bertie had had a fall on the cliffs and was being brought home in the pony cart. I came on at once—luckily I had not started on my round—I suppose I am here before them.” “Yes,” said the Squire, absently, and went out into the hall. Uncle Fred looked at the doctor and said,—