The boy grew better and stronger every day. He played with David unweariedly for many hours upon the bed, and when he was able to get up and be dressed in some of the elder boy’s clothes,—he had been washed ashore in a little nightdress and a rough blue pilot coat,—they wandered out upon the sandhills together, and enjoyed themselves after a peculiar fashion of their own. They were a very quiet pair, but not on that account unhappy. David was in a state of quiet and ecstatic delight. It was enough for him to be with the stranger, to watch his every movement, wait upon him, talk to him, love him as only children can love their own kind, and to bask, as it were, in the light of his countenance. The little new boy was very silent and quiet. He answered when he was spoken to, but seldom volunteered a remark. His eyes were always dreamy, and wore a look of wistful bewilderment and sorrow that was very expressive of the confused state of his mind. He would sit for hours gazing over the sea, with a strangely rapt expression of countenance, and when David spoke to him he would start and flush as if his thoughts had been very far away. He seemed to cling, in an abstract way, to the gentle-faced boy who watched him with such undivided interest and devotion; but so far the conversation had been limited to a very few remarks, and even the games they played together were of a peculiarly silent description. The boy had a marked preference for the sandhills and the shore, and an increasing distaste for the low cabin that somewhat distressed David and his good mother. This distaste was not expressed in words, but was manifested in a marked reluctance to come in, in an intense eagerness to get out, and in a quiet determination not to eat his food until he had carried it into the purer air without. The food, too, as soon as he had advanced beyond the “slop stage,” seemed very unpalatable to him. He was too thoroughly the little gentleman to complain, but it was plain that he would never thrive on such coarse fare; and the doctor was once more appealed to. He looked with a smile at the slight and graceful child, as he sat beside David on the sandhills, and said,— “It is plain something must be done, Mrs. Wickham; he cannot go on much longer like this. You have done your share, and more. I must see to matters myself, I think.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER II. THE SQUIRE’S HALL.