“Why do you call him grandpapa?” she asked, with interest. “Do you mean the Squire?” “Yes,” answered Bertie. “He lets me call him that. It seems more natural, somehow.” Queenie looked at him curiously. “You must feel very funny, don’t you? I should worry all day to remember things.” Bertie’s eyes were troubled and sad. “That does no good, it only makes my head ache; but I like being in church.” Queenie was aware that her father was shaking hands with the Squire. A sudden impulse came over her to speak whilst she had the chance. “I want us to be friends,” she said again. “Do you know the big oak tree down by the sunk fence at the end of the Squire’s park, near the lodge?” Bertie thought a little. “I think I do.” “If you’ll come out there to-morrow afternoon, I’ll come too. One of us can climb over, and we’ll play together. Don’t forget, and do come.” Bertie had no time to reply. A quick smile passed between the children as they parted to go their several ways. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER V. SUNDAY. IT was very easy to make it a rule that Bertie should not leave his nurseries without permission, except at stated hours; but it was a rule that appeared impossible to enforce. It was not that he was defiant, or passionate, or even, as it seemed, wilfully disobedient; but nevertheless he was perpetually slipping away at odd moments to the library window-seat, where he would remain quietly perched up, gazing intently over the stretch of level country and well-timbered park, and when discovered and reproved he would glance up with troubled eyes into the grave face of his nurse, and say in faltering tones that he did not mean to be naughty, but he liked being there. It seemed, indeed, as if some power more strong than that of mere liking drew him to that spot. It almost appeared that an instinct which he could not resist drove him to the place, and when Dr. Lighton heard of it, he advised that he should be given way to in this matter. “It is evidently some train of association that attracts him—some link with the past that may in time prove of great value. I should let him alone, Squire, unless he is in your way. He may find out what we want to know, if he is allowed undisturbed leisure for thought in the spot of his own choosing.” “He does not disturb me,” answered the Squire. “He is the quietest child in the world. He never talks, and he hardly moves. He is welcome to stay, if you think it will be productive of any good results.” “Well, I hope it may, that is all I can say. The case is an odd one, and perplexes me, I own, but the experiment is worth trying.”