“I mustn’t be a baby,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t do any good, and people will think I am naughty and ungrateful. I wish I could be happy like Queenie; but she has a papa and mamma and a home of her own, and I have nobody.” He put his hands up to his head again with the old perplexed look, but that faded in time, as the blank of the present closed him in. “I think I’ll go and see David,” he said, slowly; and, rising to his feet, he wandered down to the shore. David was always more or less on the look-out for his beloved companion. His tender admiration for Bertie had in no wise diminished; indeed, it seemed rather to increase as time passed by, though he gave it little expression. He ran up eagerly to meet Bertie as he approached, but all he said was,— “I do be glad thee’s come.” Still these simple words of welcome were sweet to Bertie at this minute. “David,” he said, as they wandered down to the margin of the waves, hand in hand and with slow, lingering steps, “I’m afraid He’s forgotten me—I am indeed.” David’s eyes opened wide. “Who?” he asked, briefly. “God,” answered the child, with deep gravity and a sort of settled sadness that was not without its effect upon his companion. “I think He must have quite forgotten me.” “Why?” “I feel forgotten,” answered Bertie, and his lip quivered. “I feel as if everybody had forgotten me, and God too. If He hadn’t, why don’t I remember?—He might let me, I think.” But Bertie couldn’t get on any further than that, and David stood staring over the sea, as if to glean inspiration from the ever-changing, tossing sheet of water. When his answer came, it was spoken with a sort of modest diffidence, as if he hardly knew whether it would be accepted as an answer at all. “He don’t forget easy, I don’t think, lovy. He don’t never forget to stop the sea when he’s come up high enough. It don’t matter whether it’s nights or days, He’s always watching, and sends it back again. If He forgot only once, our cottage would be drownded, it would, but He never do. Father’s lived there all his life, and his father afore him; that’s ever so many years, and He’s never forgot once all that time. It do seem as if forgetting wasn’t much in His way.” This was such a very long speech for David to make, that when it was done he seemed almost afraid of his own boldness; but Bertie made no answer, only stood quite still, looking dreamily out over the water. After a long silence David took courage and spoke again. “I don’t see as He could forget thee,” he said, with a certain finality in his tone that was comforting in its assurance,— “’specially when thee’s so much down by the sea here. He must see thee when He looks down to make the waves go back.” Bertie looked up into the sunny sky, and a little smile broke over his face. “I didn’t think of that,” he said, slowly. “I wonder if He does.”