So Bertie went away comforted, a sweet sense of fatherly love and protection seeming to overshadow him. It might be true enough that nobody wanted him, that he was of no use to anybody, but perhaps, if he tried to love and trust God more, to be “strong and of good courage,” to have faith in Him and wait quietly for His will to be done—perhaps then God would help him to be of some little use, to win some of the human love he felt to be lacking in his life, perhaps he might be able to fill the blank of which at times he was so painfully conscious. When he went down to dessert with the Squire that evening, he was quite bright and conversational, and the Squire unbent as the child chatted away to him, and was betrayed into telling some stories of his own boyhood, a thing which he had not done for fifteen long years. Bertie was immensely interested, and wanted them all told over again, after the fashion of childhood. As he went to bed that night, he detailed them with great accuracy to Mrs. Pritchard, who nodded her head several times and uttered oracular speeches to herself afterwards. Bertie, like many children, awoke early in the morning, and hated lying in bed awake. The sunshine seemed to tempt him out into the glad world of spring-time, and he was generally out and about by six o’clock. No objection was made to his morning rambles, and some of his happiest hours were spent among the dewy trees and flowers of garden or park. No adventure had ever befallen him so far during his early walk; but to-day it was destined to be more eventful than usual. He was wandering through a secluded shrubbery path, when he suddenly heard a quick rustle amid the laurels just around the next corner, and quite expected to see either a gardener at work, or else one of the dogs hunting amid the bushes. Nothing less than a large animal could have made so much noise, yet when he turned the corner not a sign of any living thing was to be seen. Bertie looked about him rather puzzled. He wondered if he had made a mistake; but he was quite sure he had heard the noise, and he began to peer about in curious fashion for the cause of it. Suddenly his eyes encountered the laughing glance of another pair of very blue ones. Bertie quite jumped as this happened, and he pushed aside the wet laurel leaves to obtain a better view of the intruder. For one moment he had fancied it was Queenie’s face, but he saw directly that it was a boy who had forced his way into the midst of the laurel hedge, and had tried to conceal himself there. Yet the boy did not appear in the least abashed at being caught. The merry, laughing look upon his face disarmed Bertie at once. “You will get very wet in there,” he remarked, by way of a beginning. “I can’t be wetter than I am; I’m about drenched,” was the cheerful answer. “Why don’t you come out, then, and get dried?”