The Squire looked into the child’s face, a strange softening coming into his own. Then he bent his head and kissed Bertie’s brow. “Perhaps He has given us to each other to make both our lives more bright and less empty.” The child looked up quickly, his face flushing with keen pleasure. “But—but,”—he said, tremulously—“how can I do anything for you?” The Squire’s face was very tender in its expression. “Never mind the how or the why, my little man; let it be enough that it is so. Say, are you willing to help to fill the blank that has been left so long in my life?” Bertie’s eyes were full of astonishment. Even now he half fancied himself dreaming. “What can I do?” he asked. “You can be a little son to me, if you will. You have no parents, and I have no children. Are you willing to call yourself my little boy?” A great light came into Bertie’s face. He put his arms suddenly about the Squire’s neck and laid his cheek against that of his adopted father. No more words were spoken, and none were needed. The compact was sealed without that. The strong man and the little child understood each other as by instinct, and the bond between them was metaphorically signed and sealed by the eloquent language of a few caresses. Then the Squire stood up and took the child by the hand to lead him home. They did not go for their walk after all. Time had run on, and the short daylight was beginning to wane. They took the nearest path home across the park, and, although hardly a word was spoken, Bertie felt as if a sudden new warmth and happiness had come into his life; his little heart was filled to overflowing with love and gratitude. As they reached the garden, the Squire turned aside, and, still holding Bertie by the hand, led him to the well-known spot where the “children’s gardens” stood beneath the shelter of the sunny wall. It was plain that he had heard of Bertie’s labors over this patch of land. Perhaps, unknown to all, he often visited the gardens that had once been the pride and pleasure of his children, as he visited Sunday by Sunday, unknown to all, the grave that hid his loved ones away from him. Perhaps he had watched the child at his labor of love during the past week; at least he expressed no surprise when he stood beside the trim enclosure and looked at the carefully-tended plots. But he pointed to the white stones and asked,— “Why the names?” And Bertie could explain now, as he could not perhaps have done an hour ago. He looked up into the Squire’s face and said, in his earnest way,—