He was not demonstrative in his joy; his temperament was of a quiet and contemplative kind, more prone to silent than noisy indications of happiness; but his face showed plainly the entire contentment of his heart, and those who watched him from day to day could see how his nature expanded and unfolded in the warm atmosphere of “home.” His outer life was but little changed in its quiet course. He still breakfasted in his nursery, and took his early walk either alone or with Mrs. Pritchard. He still made his way, on his return, to the Squire’s library, as he had been wont to do, to pass an hour or two in that quiet retreat. But there was a little difference now in the line of conduct he adopted when there. He used to enter the room very quietly, and pause for a moment beside the door, to see if any notice was taken of his appearance. Sometimes the Squire would give him a smile and a nod, and thus dismiss him to his nook, sometimes he would hold out his hand and say a kind word or two or ask a few questions as to his well-being; whilst upon other days he would take no notice at all of the child’s entrance, but continue his writing without so much as looking up, and then Bertie would creep on tip-toe to his window-seat and remain there as still as a mouse so long as this mood of absorption lasted. That had been what passed in old days; but now all was changed. Bertie entered the library each day with a beaming face and shining eyes. He walked straight up to the Squire and put his little arms about his neck, and books and papers were all pushed to one side for a happy ten minutes, whilst the newly-found father took his little adopted son upon his knees, and talked to him as only fathers can. And then came the business of the morning. “We must try and make up for lost time now, Bertie,” said the Squire one day, very soon after this change in their relations to one another. “We must not be idle any longer, or we shall be growing up a little dunce.” Bertie looked up quickly and smiled. “I write copies every day for Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, “and I read to her in the evenings, and she takes the book when I’ve done, and makes me spell the hard words. I’ve done some sums, too, out of Charley’s book. I’d like to do more lessons. I don’t want to be a dunce!” The Squire patted his head. “No, no, I’m sure we don’t; and Dr. Lighton has no objection to short hours and easy tasks. We will leave the reading and writing and spelling to Mrs. Pritchard, but I will take the arithmetic and Latin. Do you think you have ever learnt any Latin?” “Hic—hæc—hoc!” said Bertie, suddenly, and as suddenly stopped short. The Squire smiled. “Perhaps it will come back to you; you did not forget your reading and writing, and Dr. Lighton tells me you can speak French.” Bertie nodded.