And Bertie listened to this story again and again, until it seemed absolutely to belong to his own past. It seemed to him as if he had always known the Squire. He studied the portraits in the long gallery until he knew each one by heart. He could see the Squire as a curly-headed boy, with his pony and his dog, as a tall, handsome man in his scarlet hunting-coat, with his great whip in his hand; he could see him a year or two later with a pair of fine lads beside him; and, best of all, he knew him as he now was, a white-headed, keen-eyed, silent man, very grave and rather severe, despite his kindness of heart, a man to be reverenced and perhaps a little feared, as well as loved, towards whom the child felt an increasing sense of attraction. The Squire fascinated his imagination as much as he won his heart, and the central thought in his mind each day was how much he should see of his benefactor, how much he could talk to him, and what he would say when he did talk. Bertie was very shy of showing his feelings. He had that innate tact and sensibility not uncommon with children, that told him exactly how to speak and act in presence of his elders. He felt by instinct that any open demonstrations of affection would be unwelcome, that he must copy in his childish way the Squire’s quietness and reserve; but he could make little quiet, timid advances from time to time, and these were never repulsed, and the tacit way in which they were accepted often brought a pleasant sense of warmth to the child’s heart, taking away for the moment all his loneliness and isolation. Then, too, he knew all about the little children who once had made the silent house ring with their merry voices and laughter, who had just begun to develop into big, handsome lads and winning maidens when the call home had come and laid them sleeping side by side in the quiet churchyard. Bertie often felt as if he had actually played with Tom and Charley, had heard Mary and Violet practising their music on the schoolroom piano, and had petted the “baby” of the house, little Donald, as every else petted him, according to Mrs. Pritchard. He knew every event of their lives as detailed to him by the fond old nurse. He studied the crayon heads upon the walls, until each face was like that of some familiar friend and playfellow. He kept their toy cupboards in perfect order, never mixing Charley’s things with Tom’s, or Mary’s with Violet’s; and their story-books, battered and torn as they were, attracted him more than any of the bright new volumes of boys’ tales that arrived for him from time to time from the bookseller’s shop in the town. Then, too, the “children’s gardens,” away behind the kitchen garden wall, attracted him at this time more than any other part of the garden.