Bertie got fast hold of her hand and held it very tight. His eyes were fixed very intently on her face. “Mother,” he said, “you are going to live quite close to the Squire now, aren’t you?” “Yes, dear; we are living there already, and very soon we shall have the house quite to ourselves.” “And where shall I live then? here or in Uncle Fred’s house?” Mrs. Arbuthnot had been expecting this question for some days, and was quite prepared to meet it. “You will have two homes then, my child. Which do you think you would like to spend most of your time in?” Bertie’s eyes sought her face with great intentness. He took the hand he held and carried it to his lips. “Mother dear,” he answered after a short silence, “you have Uncle Fred now, and the Squire has nobody but me. I shall see you every day. It will be almost the same, you know—” The child broke off suddenly, looking wistfully at his mother. “You know I love you just the same,” he said, simply; “but the Squire is so lonely, and he has been so very good to me. They have all died and left him alone, and he says I have been like one of them—the child of his old age—I don’t know how to go away and leave him.” Bertie’s lip quivered, and the tears stood in Mrs. Arbuthnot’s eyes, as she stooped to kiss him. “My dear little boy,” she said, very tenderly, “I think you and I both feel alike about this. I did not tell you what Uncle Fred and I have said, because I wanted to learn your own feelings first. We do not want you to do anything to darken the life of one who has been like a father to you when you were so sadly in need of love and care. My darling, we think that your place is still here with the Squire, if you are content to stay. We shall see you every day; you will always be our little boy too. You will have two homes instead of one, and loving parents in both. But, as you say yourself, I have Uncle Fred to take care of me now, and be my companion always, whilst he has nobody but his little Bertie.” Bertie kissed his mother’s hand again, and looked at her with loving eyes. “You always understand, mother dear. Some day I will tell you all about things—about the Squire, I mean, and how they all died,—Tom and Charley, and Mary and Violet, and even little Donald,—and then you will understand better still. But please may I see him now? I think he has been looking rather sad these last few days. He has not talked to me quite in the same way, quite as if I belonged to him now. I should like to see him and tell him what we have arranged. Please may I see him all by myself?”