“Oh, how tiresome! Why can’t they arrange things differently? Are you sure, Phil?” “About the young birds, Queenie? Yes, I’m afraid I am sure.” For a few minutes she looked a good deal cast down, but then a brighter look crossed her face. “I’ll tell you what we can do, Phil,” she said, with energy. “We can have a good look at the place, and make David tell us where all the best places are; and then, you know, when the spring comes round—” Phil tossed his cap into the air. “To be sure, Queenie! you’re a brick for thinking of things.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIII. A PICNIC. BERTIE felt rather queer when he got home that day. His head ached a little, and he was not much disposed to eat his dinner. He did not care about going out any more, and by and by he stole down-stairs to his old haunt, the library window-seat, and established himself comfortably there. He had not been seen in that place so much of late as he had been at first. Latterly his frequent visits to the next house had taken up a great deal of his time, and he was out of doors for the greater part of these warm summer days. Then Phil and Queenie often came to see him, and at such times the children were not allowed to leave the nurseries except to play in the garden. The liberty granted to Bertie himself was not accorded to his friends. So he had been little to the library of late, and when he found himself there again he heaved a sigh of contentment, as if he had somehow found a haven of refuge for himself. The Squire was not in his room when Bertie found his way there; but he came in a little bit later, and his grave, stern face seemed to soften as his glance rested upon the figure of the child. He did not speak, however, only crossed the room, and stood for a few moments in the embrasure of the window, his hand resting kindly upon the head of the little boy. It was more of a caress than Bertie had ever before received from his benefactor, and it seemed to give him courage; for when the Squire seated himself in his chair with the newspaper, Bertie followed and took a footstool at his feet, leaning his tired head against the Squire’s knee; and in that position he quickly fell asleep. When he began to awake, he found himself on somebody’s knee, a kind arm encircling him, and his head resting comfortably upon a supporting shoulder. Half-sleeping, half-waking, the child moved a little, and said, dreamily,— “Grandpapa—where’s mother?” It was the first time the child had ever named any relative. He had called the Squire “grandpapa” as if by instinct, and had appeared when he first came to have some association with that name, but he had never spoken of either father or mother, and it had sometimes seemed doubtful whether he had ever known a parent’s love at all.