The child lay back on his pillows after the Squire had gone, and kept his promise literally so far as his body was concerned, but his mind could not be controlled in the same fashion. Strange thoughts and memories were chasing each other through his brain in so bewildering a phantasmagoria, that at last he could only press his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out the images that crowded themselves before his mental vision, and wait with a beating heart and a sense of expectancy that he could not in the least have explained for something, he knew not what, that he was certain was about to happen. He heard steps approaching the door, the firm footfall of the Squire, and another tread much more light, accompanied by the rustle of a dress—but the sort of rustle that no garments Mrs. Pritchard ever wore could possible make. Bertie’s heart beat faster and faster; there was a strange singing in his ears, as if water were surging round him. He pressed his hand more tightly over his eyes. It almost seemed as if he were afraid to look up, or to see who was approaching, and yet in his heart of hearts he knew. “Ronald!” said a very sweet and gentle voice. And then all the clouds seemed suddenly to roll away and the confusion to melt away like summer snow. The child looked up with a glad, sweet smile and said,— “Mother dear, you have come at last. I knew you must be coming.” The mother bent and kissed her child, as she had done so many times whilst he had lain asleep. He seemed to know it now. “You used to kiss me like that in my dreams,” he said. “I did not want to wake because the dreams were so nice.” The Squire was about to withdraw and leave them together, but Bertie saw the movement, and noted, too, the expression on the face he loved so well. “Papa,” he said, holding out his hand,—“papa, don’t go, please. We both want you. Nothing is quite right without you now; and I know mother will always let me be your little boy too.” “Mother,” said Bertie, later on, in one of those little confidences that they held from time to time during the days of his convalescence, “I’ve learned now what you used to tell me so often—about God’s taking care of us always. I used not to care about it much till I lost you and was so lonely. I thought He’d forgotten me then; but I’m sure now He hadn’t. He didn’t forget you either, did He, mother dear?” “No indeed,” answered Mrs. Arbuthnot, gently. “He has been very, very good to me. Once He seemed to take away all that made my life glad; but He has restored it all fourfold now.” Bertie’s face expressed a vivid interest and animation. “I think He’s always very good to people when they’re lonely. You see He gave me to the Squire when I had nobody to love, and it was like having a home of my own then, and a father too. And when you had nobody He sent Uncle Fred to you. You are quite happy now, aren’t you, mother dear?” “Yes, my little boy, I am very happy indeed.”