The Squire’s rules were few; but they were scrupulously obeyed by Bertie. It is true he had forced his way into the library again and again after having been told not to go there without leave; but that had seemed to be with him a matter rather of instinct than a voluntary act. The library was the one place where, from the first moment, he had seemed at home, and his haunting of the room appeared to be something rather outside of his own will. In other matters Bertie was perfectly docile and obedient. Mrs. Pritchard was loud in his praises, and Queenie many times held him up to rather merciless ridicule, because he insisted on returning home at the time he had been told, or declined to share in some escapade because he thought the Squire would not approve of it. But Bertie, in spite of his quiet ways and dislike to anything like a quarrel, could be firm enough when he chose, and Queenie soon learned to know that he could “hold his own” against her, as Phil called it, if he meant to do so. This often annoyed the little girl at the moment; but it made her respect Bertie the more in her heart, and the children were very good friends, in spite of their little differences, and the companionship of playmates of his own age and station was of undoubted advantage to the lonely boy. Still, it may be doubted whether Bertie’s happiest hours were not those spent by him alone with David wandering over the sandhills, or watching with a sense of reverent expectancy for the daily turning of the tide. All the child’s deeper thoughts were locked away in his own breast when he was playing with Queenie and Phil; but they were brought out quite naturally when David and he were alone together, and many earnest talks were held by the margin of the wide-flowing sea, and many prayers went up from two faithful, patient little hearts, that the great loving Father above, who never forgot to preserve the fisherman’s cottage from danger, would look down and “remember Bertie again.” For as the weeks rolled silently away, it seemed as if Bertie would never “remember himself.” His health improved gradually, and he was active and merry, though always in a quiet way; but no gleam from the past ever lighted up his mind; he was still as ignorant of his real name and state in life as he had been when he lay unconscious in the fisherman’s cottage, and the vague impressions that used sometimes to flit across his brain were growing now more rare and more faint. Dr. Lighton sometimes shook his head and looked disturbed as he heard from time to time of the state of the case. One day he began a sort of half apology to the Squire for having, so to speak, imposed upon him the charge of the child; but he was not allowed to go far in his speech. “Don’t name it, Lighton, I beg you. It is a matter of no moment to me. The child is welcome to his food and shelter. He is no trouble to me, and the servants seem to enjoy having him.”