She brushed his short, dark, curly head till it shone in the sunlight, washed his face and hands, and tied afresh the little crimson bow that contrasted well with the black of his velvet jacket. The new brightness that had not yet left his face gave to it quite a new expression, and there was in the child’s whole bearing a sort of courteous yet commanding air that had not been observable before. He seemed suddenly to take it for granted that he belonged to the house, and had a certain right to a voice in its affairs. He walked boldly down-stairs as soon as he was released from Mrs. Pritchard’s hands, and made his way into the dining-room, where the butler was laying the table. The butler was no other than Mrs. Pritchard’s husband, and shared her compassionate interest in the little waif who had been thrown upon their hands. He smiled as the child approached, and said,— “So you will take your dinner with the Squire to-day, Master Bertie?” “Yes; and please don’t put me at the side of the table, Pritchard. I should prefer to sit opposite to him here at the end.” Pritchard was by no means certain how the Squire would like this arrangement. It was seldom indeed in the years that had passed since her death that his wife’s vacant place had been occupied by any one else; but it is a weakness with elderly people, and especially with kind old servants, to give way to the fancies of a child, and Pritchard did as Bertie directed, and laid the two covers, one at the foot and the other at the head of the long table that seemed meant for a merry family party. Bertie was standing gravely by his chair when the Squire came in and the latter cast a keen glance upon the little figure outlined against the sunny window behind. “Shall I say grace?” asked the child, with the composure of manner that showed this to have been an old habit in the forgotten life of past days. He folded his hands and repeated a brief formula, and then he took his seat at the table and arranged his napkin with an air of perfect familiarity with the situation. The Squire watched him with more interest than he had done before. Certainly there was something rather attractive in this little nameless boy who knew nothing about himself, yet betrayed his gentle birth and breeding in each unconscious word and movement. “Grandpapa,” said Bertie, looking across the table, “who is the pretty little girl who sat opposite in church, and talked to me afterwards?” “That is little Miss Arbuthnot. She lives in the big white house next to ours.” “Yes, I know; she told me so. She asked if I would play with her sometimes. May I?” The Squire smiled a little. “Oh dear, yes! as far as I am concerned you may; I have not the least objection for you to play with her. Whether she will be allowed to play with you is quite another matter.” Bertie made no response. He was not quite sure that he understood the drift of this remark, and so he took refuge in silence.