All her doubts as to the little boy’s “fitness” to be her friend vanished, she knew not how. All that seemed of any importance now was that he seemed lonely and unhappy, and that _of course_ she must make friends with him and try to comfort him. She caught herself wondering again and again what he could be thinking of, as he sat so still in his corner, his eyes sometimes fixed upon the clergyman, sometimes wandering dreamily towards one or another of the stained glass windows. Did it all seem very strange to him? or did he remember what a church was like and feel at home there? His deportment was quite correct, but that might be imitation. How much did he remember, and how much was forgotten? It was a question that affected her imagination keenly and quite occupied all her thoughts. She was glad that the little boy was younger than herself, though she could hardly have said why. He did not look a bit more than seven or eight, whilst she was nearly ten, and he did not look at all strong. She would be able to patronize and protect him, which was of all things what she loved best to do. Fortune favored Queenie that day, for, as the congregation left the church, Sir Walter said to his little daughter,— “Don’t be in a hurry; I want to speak to the Squire.” Queenie was delighted, and eagerly waited by the little gate till the Squire should appear. He was a little time in coming, as several of the poor people had something they wished to say to him. But he came at length, the child close at his side, at whom Sir Walter cast one curious glance, and then drew the Squire a little on one side in order to talk at his ease. The two children were thus left confronting each other. Queenie of course spoke first. “What is your name, little boy?” she asked, graciously. “They call me Bertie here,” he answered, gently, lifting his cap when the little strange lady spoke to him in a way that raised him many steps higher in Queenie’s opinion. “Well, they call me Queenie,” responded she, laughing, “though it isn’t my name, so we’re something like one another, you see. How old are you?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Mrs. Pritchard and the tailor said I must be about seven or eight.” “I thought so!” cried Queenie, quickly; “I always guess people’s ages nearly right. I shall be ten pretty soon. We live in the nearest house to you—next door, we should say in London; but people don’t talk like that here.” Bertie looked up with a little start. “Next door,” he said, quickly, and then stopped short. “What about next door?” asked Queenie. “I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I thought I did; but I didn’t.” “I want us to be friends,” said Queenie; “would you like to be?” “If grandpapa likes,” answered Bertie, without the animation Queenie looked for. Yet he spoke so gently that she could not be offended, and the wistful look in his eyes touched her, she could not tell why.