“I’ve got ‘Our Father’ left still, you see, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, with a sort of quaint gravity that was very touching in its way. “He is my Father, isn’t He? even if I’m quite lost, He knows where I am, and He takes care of me, I’m sure. I don’t think He’ll ever quite forget me, and p’raps He’ll let me find my real home some day; but I’ll always say ‘Thy will be done’ about it.” Then, looking quickly up into the kind face above him, he asked, “Perhaps grandpapa will explain it all and help me. He had to say ‘Thy will be done’ when God took his little children away, and I suppose that was very hard.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IV. QUEENIE’S HOME. “I DO hate term-time!” cried Queenie, stamping her little foot and looking altogether fierce and out of sorts. “I hate all the boys to be away! Why do boys have to go to school? I’m sure they don’t learn so very much; I believe I know more than most of them. Boys ought either to stay at home or else take their sisters to school with them.” And Queenie, who was standing in the middle of her big nursery surrounded by piles of books and toys, looked triumphantly round her, as if she had uttered a very fine sentiment indeed. Her nurse, who was quietly working by the window, smiled a little at this outbreak. “Perhaps young gentlemen might not care about taking their sisters with them,” she suggested, mildly; but Queenie tossed her head with a supercilious air. “_My_ brothers always like to have _me_ with them,” she answered. “It’s perfectly horrid when they all go away. Nothing is any fun without boys.” “You won’t think so long, Miss Queenie. It’s only just at first that it seems dull-like.” Queenie stamped her foot. I am afraid she often did so, being a very excitable young lady, and without much control over herself. “It isn’t!” she cried, angrily; “it’s all the time, every bit of it—a whole horrid three months nearly! I hate people who try and pretend things aren’t what they are. It’s very stupid and very unkind. You know I’m always miserable when the boys are away, and it’s not a bit of good pretending I’m not!” Queenie turned defiantly upon her nurse as she made this challenge; but the wise woman, knowing well the disposition of her little mistress, held her peace. Queenie sat down suddenly in the middle of her toys and stared about her disconsolately. “It is horrid to live in a place where there isn’t a single boy.” “There is a boy now at the Manor House,” remarked the nurse, threading her needle afresh. Queenie looked up, all interest and vivacity. “A boy at the Manor House!” she repeated. “Who is he? I didn’t know the Squire had any boys.”