And Queenie laughed quietly to herself as she ran up-stairs to her nursery, very full of importance and delight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VIII. BERTIE AND PHIL. BERTIE was not at all angry at being ordered home by his imperious little companion, neither was he indisposed to obey the mandate. He liked Queenie, she amused and interested him, but he found her a little overwhelming, and he was not altogether sorry to quit her presence and be alone once more. Several new impressions had been made upon him during the past hour, and a little of the aching sense of bewilderment, now slowly leaving him, had been awakened by his visit to the stable and the appearance of Sir Walter Arbuthnot. He could not tell why some things seemed to hurt him in an odd, inexplicable fashion, whilst others made no impression upon his mind. Yet undoubtedly such was the case, and, as the dim and undefined sense of familiarity was always followed by a sort of reaction of sorrowful bewilderment and distress, Bertie was rather glad to be left alone to pursue his way unmolested and in peace. His little face was pale and sad as he paused at last beneath a great beech-tree and sat down upon its gnarled roots to think. He looked down at the primroses growing at his feet, and put out his hand as if to pluck them; but he drew it back again, and then instead began stroking their leaves with gentle, loving touches. “Poor little pretty things!” he said, half aloud; “I won’t take them away; I’m sure they’ll be happier here.” Bertie looked up from the flowers to the blue sky overhead, and, as he looked, sudden tears glistened in his eyes. “I wish I was a primrose, growing in a nice quiet place like this. Everybody is fond of flowers; but nobody wants me.” The child’s lip quivered. A wave of desolation was sweeping over the lonely little heart. With the greater clearness of perception that was coming to him by degrees, was coming also a clearer understanding of the peculiar isolation of his position. He had less and less hope of remembering the past—its fleeting memories grew rather less than more defined, and eluded his grasp with even greater pertinacity than at first. He was not old enough to realize to the full the curious position he occupied; but he did begin to understand something of the situation, and to feel his loneliness and friendlessness with the acute sensibility peculiar to childhood. “Nobody wants me,” he said, slowly; “I don’t belong to anybody in the world; I haven’t even got a name. The Squire is very kind; but he doesn’t want me. He would rather I was somewhere else.” A tear rolled slowly down each of the child’s cheeks and fell upon his little thin hands. Bertie looked meditatively at them as they sparkled in the sunshine, and then he slowly wiped his eyes.