It was the Squire’s voice that spoke, and it was the Squire himself who was now standing before him, beside the quiet grave. Bertie looked up with bewildered eyes and said nothing. “Why are you here, my child?” The voice was so gentle that it helped Bertie to recover himself. He shook off the curious feeling that had oppressed him, and answered, slowly,— “I came here to see the grave.” “What made you come?” The child looked at the names upon the stone, and sudden tears sprang to his eyes. “Because I love them all,” he answered, simply, and with quivering lips. “I love them so very much, and I wanted to see—where they—” He could not get on any further; but suddenly he found himself lifted up in a pair of strong arms and kissed as he had never been kissed in his life before, so far as he could remember. The Squire had taken Bertie’s seat upon the strong arm of the yew tree, and the child was pressed very closely to his heart. “And so you love them all, do you, my child?” Bertie nodded vehemently. “Don’t cry, my little man,” said the Squire, kindly. “What is it that troubles you?” Bertie looked up, his soft eyes swimming in tears. “I love you too,” he said, tremulously, “and you are all alone—” There was a break in the child’s voice, and then he added, “It does seem—as if—God might—have left you—_one_.” The Squire bent his head lower over the child’s. “My little boy,” he said, very gravely and impressively, “I once said that myself; but I have been sorry ever since, for the good God knows best; and what He wills always must be right. Do you see those four words underneath the names? They were not put there at first; at first I could not say them; but they were added later, when I had learned the lesson that all this was sent to teach me; and since I have learned it I have not been alone.” Bertie held his breath to catch the low-toned words that hardly seemed to be spoken to him, but rather as if the strong man were communing with his own soul. Bertie’s was a nature that could apprehend much more than it could actually understand, and he seemed to gain a strange and wonderful insight into the nature of this self-contained man. It was as if he knew by instinct something of what he had passed through. He did not speak for some time, and when he did, it was with a certain curious assurance. “You were strong and of a good courage, I suppose,” he said, “so of course He did not forsake you.” The Squire looked down at the little boy. “What do you mean, Bertie?” “It’s what God said to Joshua, I think. He says it to us all: He won’t forget us if we trust in Him.” “Did you think He had forgotten you, Bertie?” The child hung his head. “I think I did once. It was naughty, I know, but it did seem rather like it, didn’t it? But I know now that He hasn’t.” “Why?” The child looked up suddenly with one of his rare and peculiarly sweet smiles. “I think partly because He sent me here to you; and you are so very, very kind to me.”