The Squire smiled a little. “Your heart was always tender, Mrs. Pritchard. Well, what did you think of the child?” “A little gentleman born, if ever there was one,” answered the worthy housekeeper, with some warmth. “He was dressed just like the other boy, in old patched clothes, but the difference between them! Why, the little one was on his feet almost before he knew I was speaking to them, and took off his cap as pretty as could be, and answered so gentle, and quite like as if he’d been used to company all his life. Poor lamb, it isn’t fitting he should stay in such a place. The look in his eyes fairly haunts me, it does. I can’t get it out of my head.” “Well, Mrs. Pritchard, I have been hearing the same story from other quarters. What should you say to having him here to take care of, until he can tell us where his own home is?” The housekeeper’s face brightened visibly. “Do you really mean it, sir?” “Certainly. Dr. Lighton has spoken upon the subject, and I agree with him in thinking that this house should be the one to shelter him until we can discover something about him. Are you prepared to put up with the trouble of having a child about the place for a few weeks?” “Oh, sir,” cried the good woman, clasping her hands together in a sudden outbreak of feeling, “if there is one thing would make me happier than another, it would be to have a child to tend and care for again!” The Squire turned his face slightly away; he took out his keys and began fumbling in the drawer of the table before him. “Very good, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said at length, after rather a long pause, and speaking with manifest effort. “Then you had better make all necessary arrangements, and get the nurseries ready for him by to-morrow. He had better live there entirely, except when he is out of doors. You will arrange all that; but understand that I do not care about seeing him all over the house.” “Yes, sir, I will take care of that,” answered Mrs. Pritchard, with ready comprehension. “And you must get him whatever he wants in the way of clothes,” continued the Squire, handing across a crisp bank-note. “You had better have the dog-cart, and get William to drive you both in to Twing to-morrow morning. Buy whatever is needful for the present, and order what you cannot get at once. The child must look as he should whilst he stays under my roof.” Mrs. Pritchard rose and curtsied and took the money held out. “Thank you, sir,” she said; “I will see that your wishes are carried out to the best of my powers.” She withdrew, and the Squire was left alone with his books and his dying fire. The night was merging into day before he roused himself from the reverie into which he had sunk, and extinguished the lamp that had grown pale in the feeble glimmer of coming dawn. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER III. A LITTLE INTRUDER.