“He did not mind you calling him so? Well, to be sure, he is always kind and good. But, Master Bertie dear, you must not go there without leave. It’s only the nurseries that belong to you.” Bertie looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said nothing. The look upon his face touched his kind friend, and she added, reassuringly—, “It isn’t anything as has vexed him with you, dearie, but he’s had a deal of trouble has the Squire, and there’s some things as it hurts him to talk of, and one of them is children.” Bertie’s eyes were very wide open now, brimful of eager intelligence. “I don’t understand, please, Mrs. Pritchard. Why do children hurt him?” “Because, dearie, he once had five little ones of his own; and there came a dreadful sickness here one year, and they all five died within a fortnight; and the Squire has never been the same man since, and no child has ever set foot inside the house, till you came three days ago.” Bertie’s gaze was very intent. “Did they _all_ die?” “Ay, that they did, and the mother too; and he was left all alone.” Bertie looked dreamily out of the window. “What is dying?” he asked. Mrs. Pritchard hesitated how to reply; and Bertie gave the answer to his own question. “Isn’t it when God takes people away with Him that people say they are dead?” The ready tears had started to Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes. “Ay, indeed ’tis so, Master Bertie dear; but we’re sadly given to forget that.” “I haven’t forgotten that,” said Bertie, slowly, “but I can’t remember who told me.” He looked hard at Mrs. Pritchard and asked, earnestly, “Do you think God knows all about me?” “Ay, my dearie, I suppose He knows everything.” “I wish He would let me remember,” said the child, wistfully. “Do you think He will?” “Yes, dearie, I do. He is very good to us, for all He sends us trouble sometimes. You can ask Him, you know, when you say your prayers to-night; you can ask Him any time.” Bertie’s hand was pressed to his head, his eyes glowed strangely. “Somebody said—” He paused, and then went on again, “Somebody said that we must not choose ourselves, only ask God to choose for us. I can’t remember just what it was. But it was like Jesus, you know, in the garden, when He said “Thy will be done,” to everything. I must say “Thy will be done” too, mustn’t I, about remembering things again? I know they said that—I can’t have made it up.” He was growing distressed, as he so easily did when the vanished memory eluded his grasp; but Mrs. Pritchard took him into her motherly embrace and soothed and quieted him. Very soon the child was himself again, and looked at her with a smile.