Bertie’s quick instincts had not deceived him. These last few days had been rather sad ones for the good Squire. He had been trying to resign himself to the loss of the child, feeling that it would be ungenerous to take advantage of the mother’s concession, made in a moment of deep emotion, and being of opinion that the child would himself be unwilling to remain beneath his roof when the mother he evidently so truly loved had a home to offer him herself. Trouble had so far weighed upon the Squire’s mind, that he was inclined to expect more, and to prepare himself for adverse fortune. It seemed more natural to him now to lose than to gain, and he had no real hope of keeping the child beneath his own roof much longer. Some compromise might possibly be made for the present; but his sense of ownership, of fatherhood, would be gone, and the sense of warmth and light that had slowly crept into his lonely life would be as slowly extinguished. When he came and stood beside Bertie’s couch,—the child was up and dressed for the first time to-day,—his face showed some faint reflection of the trouble of his mind, and Bertie’s quick eyes detected it instantly. The little boy got up and pushed him gently towards Mrs. Pritchard’s great easy chair that stood beside the fire. It was May, but the cold east winds were blowing, and made fires very pleasant companions, especially when the light began to wane in the sky and the dusk crept into the corners of the room, as it was doing now. “You are better to-day, Bertie,” said the Squire, kindly. “Rather shaky on your legs still, eh?” “A little,” answered Bertie, laughing. “I feel rather funny when I walk; and my arm is very stiff. Take me on your knee, please, papa; I want to talk to you.” The Squire lifted him up, and Bertie nestled down comfortably in his accustomed resting-place, drawing a long breath of satisfaction. “That is just nice!” he said. “What is nice?” “Why, to know that I shall be your little boy always now, and that nobody can ever want to take me away so long as you want me.” The Squire held the child a little more closely in his arms, but his voice was quite steady as he said,— “What makes you speak so, Bertie?” “I have been talking to mother,” answered the little boy. “We have arranged it all. I am to go on living with you,—if you want me.” Bertie felt a sort of tremor run through the Squire’s strong frame, but his voice was as quiet and composed as ever. “But what do you say yourself, Bertie? You have found your mother now. Do you not wish to go to her? You love her very much, I can see. Would you not rather belong to her than stay here to be my little boy?” Bertie raised his face a little, so that he could look at the Squire. His eyes were full of gravity and a certain fixity of purpose.