Drifted ashore;

BERTIE set out upon his ramble that Sunday afternoon with a definite plan in his head.

Although it was now November, the air was mild and sunny, and the tints upon the oak trees still glowed golden and almost scarlet as the light touched them and brought out all their varying hues.

Bertie looked about him as he moved with a sense of keen enjoyment. He had grown to love very dearly the home that had been his in the new life,—the only one he had ever known, as it seemed to him now,—and he did not hurry through the park, for he had plenty of time before him.

He took a quiet, rarely traversed pathway that cut diagonally across the Squire’s estate and led towards the village and the church. The rabbits, startled at the sound of his footsteps, scuttled away or darted across his path as he moved, and the child smiled as he watched their little white scuts vanishing down a friendly hole. But the rabbits and he were very good friends on the whole, and many amongst them did not condescend to fly from him, but sat up at a little distance and stared at him with their round, black, bead-like eyes.

The dead leaves rustled and crackled pleasantly beneath the child’s feet as he moved. The birds had begun to sing again, after their long summer silence. The rooks were noisy in the tree-tops above him, and the sound of the church bells were musical in the soft air.

The bells soon stopped ringing, however, but there were other pleasant sounds telling of Nature’s peaceful life all round.

Sheep bleated and cattle lowed in the level fields lying westward, whilst from the east came the soft, ceaseless murmur of the ocean, that mysterious, inexplicable voice that is never silent, and yet whose secret language no man has ever yet been able to interpret.

Bertie walked onwards in a state of dreamy contentment. The air was very clear and blue and sunny, the sky overhead was free from all cloud, but in the west there was vapor enough to give to the slowly-declining sun a new glory of form and color, which would increase as the day drew to its close.

Bertie was repeating to himself some words that had haunted him with greater or less persistence ever since he had heard them many months ago now.

“I will be with thee: I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee. Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”

Bertie said those words over two or three times to himself, and a smile suddenly shone over his face.

“I do think He is,” he said, half aloud. “If he hasn’t done quite what I asked, He’s been very, very kind to me. He’s sent me to people who are good and who love me, and I might have been so miserable. He is good and kind; He doesn’t ever forget us quite. I’ll try always to be strong and of a good courage, and not to be afraid of anything. I think He’s sure to go on taking care of me, as He’s always been so kind.”

And Bertie went on his way with a contented smile, feeling very safe and happy in the sense of the loving protection of the great Father in heaven. His destination was the churchyard, and as he approached he glanced up at the clock in the tower, and saw that he had plenty of time at his disposal before he should have to meet the Squire at the gate he had mentioned as the trysting-place.

He heard the muffled sound of the organ and voices from within the ancient building, but all without was still and deserted, and he could prosecute his search unseen.

What was it in that quiet graveyard that the child had come to see?

Nothing more or less than the grave of which Mrs. Pritchard sometimes spoke with tears, where the mother and five children lay sleeping, all laid to rest together within the space of one short week.

With quiet, reverent steps Bertie picked his way among the silent graves. A strange sense of loneliness had fallen upon him, and yet he was not afraid. He felt as if he were quite alone in this great Sabbath calm and stillness, with only the graves of those who had gone to keep him company.

“Under the great yew tree at the south corner.” These had been Mrs. Pritchard’s words when Bertie had asked her where the grave stood that held the Squire’s dear ones, and by this description he guided his steps.

Yes, there it was, just as Mrs. Pritchard had described—a simple slab of marble beneath the protecting shape of the ancient yew tree. There were all the familiar names—names that were now as those of familiar comrades. Bertie read them one by one with an odd dreaminess stealing over him. He sat down upon a low bough of the great tree and gazed at the marble slab with wide-open, abstracted eyes.

Where were they all now, those children who had laughed and played up and down the corridors of his present home, and had made the silent house ring again with their merry romps and happy voices? They had been children once just his age, perhaps they too had known just such thoughts as so often crowded into his busy brain. They had seen the same things that he looked on day by day; surely they must once have been very like him, and known just those very same feelings and longings as he experienced.

And where were they all now? What did they think of the bright world they had left behind? Was all forgotten as if it never had existed? or did the children who had never lived to grow old look down sometimes with smiling eyes upon the happy home they had left, and perhaps spare a loving glance for the little boy who loved them all without ever having seen them?

These thoughts crowded fast upon Bertie as he sat still in the dark yew tree. What was death? he asked himself again and again—the death that had come so very near him once, and had almost grasped its prey. What was it? What became of those who were taken away from this world! Where did they go, the children who never grew up?

And a voice in his own heart answered so clearly and softly, that the child was quite startled.

“Suffer the little children to come unto Me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Bertie lifted his head and looked round; but there was no one near, and he smiled at his passing fear.

“They are in heaven,” he said softly to himself, “with Jesus—I suppose it is always heaven where He is. They must be very happy. I hope I shall go there some day. I wonder if I shall know them when I do. I feel as if I should.”

The thought of having in heaven some children who seemed almost like living friends was a strange and rather solemn one to the little boy. It filled him with a sense of mingled happiness and awe, and he looked again at the names upon the tombstone, and read them slowly one by one.

And then his eye was caught by four words, standing quite alone at the foot of the stone:

“Thy will be done.”

Bertie covered his face with his hands and sank into a sort of dream, which he could not possibly have put into words. Strange thoughts and flitting memories crowded in upon his brain, and he shut out all outward sights, and was deaf to all outward sounds, and knew nothing more until he was suddenly aroused by feeling himself touched very gently, and his own hands taken away from his face.

“What is the matter, my little man?”

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.”

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,—

“I was afraid perhaps—some day—that they would get forgotten; when you are dead, you know, and I have gone away. I thought somebody else might come who wouldn’t know, and who would dig up the gardens and take them right away. I didn’t want them to do that, so I thought if I put the names there, that perhaps people would wonder, and ask whose gardens they were, and then they would hunt about and see the names in the churchyard, and then they would know that they belonged to the children who had all died together long ago, and that would make them feel sorry and they would tell the gardeners not to disturb these gardens, but to keep them nice always, and so Tom and Charley, Mary and Violet, would never be quite forgotten.”

The Squire made no reply; he started a little as the long unheard names of his children fell upon his ear, but he did not speak, and only took Bertie’s hand again and led him towards the house.

And on the threshold he paused, bent his head and kissed him, saying softly and gently,—

“My little boy now.”