His wistful glance travelled upwards till it rested upon the snow-white hair that gave to the Squire a more venerable appearance than his years indicated, and again a little smile shone out from the sad eyes, and the same word sprang in a whisper to the lips that quivered yet with the past fit of weeping,— “Grandpapa!” “So that is to be your name for me, is it?” questioned the Squire, kindly. “Very well, it will do as well as any other. And what am I to call you?” The child’s hand went up to his head. “I don’t know,” he said, pitifully. “Well, then, I must think of something for myself. You have given me a name, so I must give you one. What shall it be, I wonder? Shall we say Bertie? That gives us a certain license, you see, and does not commit us to anything very definite, eh, Bertie?” The child smiled a little uncertain, tearful smile. The name did not appear to arouse any associations; but still it was something to have a name again. “And now, Bertie, tell me why it was you came here at all? Where is Mrs. Pritchard?” “She is having her tea. She left me in the nursery, and said she should soon be back. I came down-stairs to go into the garden, and then I saw the door open, and the books, and I came in to look. I like a library; I always used”—but here the look of bewilderment swept over the boy’s face again, and he concluded, confusedly, “I mean, nobody was there, and it all looked nice and quiet, and so I came in and sat there, and then you came back, and I thought—” “Never mind, never mind what you thought,” interposed the Squire, hastily, for the look in the child’s eyes was painfully bewildered and strained. “Tell me if you know who I am.” “You are the Squire,” answered Bertie, promptly, looking more natural and childlike again. “I saw you ride out on your big brown horse to-day; and yesterday I saw you walking in the garden and telling the men what to do. Mrs. Pritchard says that all this big house belongs to you. Are you ever lonely living here all by yourself?” The Squire looked down into the child’s upturned face, and a curious shade passed over his own. “What do you know about being lonely?” he asked, in an odd, muffled voice. Bertie put his hand over his eyes; and then, after a moment’s pause, looked up again smiling. “I was lonely down by the sea with David. He was very kind, and I liked him, and so was his mother. But I was lonely with them. It isn’t half so lonely here with you.” “You are not lonely, then, with Mrs. Pritchard in the nursery, I suppose?” Bertie hesitated. “Mrs. Pritchard is very kind,” he said, with a little courtly air that was almost amusing,—“very kind indeed; but, somehow, this feels more _natural_, you know.” The Squire, as he found the child grew more composed and quiet, began to return to his former state of mind as regarded his position in the house. “But you must understand, Bertie, that the nursery is your room, and that this is mine. You must not come here without leave.”