“I don’t know. I never thought of it. I’m not sure that he’d like me to go.” “You could go when he was out.” But Bertie shook his head resolutely. “Why not, pray? It would do no harm.” “I shouldn’t like to go if he hadn’t given me leave,” answered Bertie. Queenie tossed her head. “Who taught you to be so strait-laced as all that? Mrs. Pritchard?” “No,” answered Bertie, slowly; “Mrs. Pritchard never said anything about it.” Queenie looked at him, and he looked at her, his eyes dreamy and wistful. “I think you must have been very strictly brought up,” she said, gravely. “That sort of thing would not suit _me_. You would have much more spirit if you were less particular. You should see _my_ brothers. They don’t care about anything.” Bertie did not seem convinced by this argument, but he held his peace, as he always did when not quite sure of his ground. Queenie thought she had won a victory, and said graciously,— “Now we will come and see my pony.” When Bertie found himself in the stable, he seemed more at home than he had done in the farmyard. He went boldly up to the pony in his box, and stroked and caressed him as if he had known what it was to be on friendly terms with a horse before. The creature responded to his advances and Queenie looked on with a gracious air of approval. “Why, here is papa!” she cried, suddenly; and Bertie turned round in time to see the gentleman who had stopped the Squire on Sunday entering by the stable door. “Hullo, Queenie! what are you doing here?” was the quick inquiry; “and what would mamma say?” “I am showing Bertie my pony,” answered Queenie, running up and taking her father’s hand coaxingly. “I didn’t come alone. I had Bertie with me. You know who Bertie is, don’t you, papa? The little boy who lives with the Squire now.” Of course Sir Walter had heard the romantic story, and he looked at the child with kindly interest. Bertie took off his cap and gave his hand to the baronet with the gentle courtesy characteristic of him. “Well, my little lad, and how do you like your new home?” he asked. Bertie’s eyes grew vaguely sorrowful. “Everybody is very kind,” he said; adding after a short pause, and rather inconsequently, “Your little girl has been showing me her chickens and her pony.” “That is right, that is right; and have you enjoyed yourself?” “Yes, thank you, sir. I like horses. I think I used to ride on one once.” That look that always shone in the child’s eyes when he spoke or thought of the vanished past touched the baronet’s kind heart. “Well, well, you will soon know all about it, no doubt; and meantime, you must come and talk to my little girl as often as you can, and play together and enjoy yourselves. Now run off, Queenie, and take your little friend with you. You can ask Bennet if he has any strawberries to spare for you. Keep in the garden, children. You know, Queenie, mamma does not like your being in the yard or the stable.”