Drifted ashore;

A NEW life began from that day forward for little Bertie. He could hardly have defined the change that had passed over his head, but he was keenly alive to it day by day, and as grateful as he was happy at the thing that had come to him.

He was no longer the lonely little outcast he once had been. He was no longer a chance guest in this hospitable house, entertained there simply because no other home opened to him, and the master was too kind-hearted to turn him out upon the mercy of a cold world.

No, he was no longer a desolate little waif and stray cast up homeless and desolate by the cold sea-waves; he was now the child of the house, tended and loved as if he had been born to the position he occupied, and the cloud of depression that had long weighed more or less upon him during his sojourn there now melted away in the sunshine of the happy present.

It was not that Bertie understood, as some others about him did, the great change in his position now that he had been adopted by the Squire of Arlingham, a man of considerable means, and with no near kindred to call his own. There were many discussions in the neighborhood as to the probability of Bertie’s becoming his heir, and inheriting eventually such property as he had to leave, and succeeding to the title of Squire, which had so long been held from father to son by the family who dwelt in the Manor House; but the little boy knew nothing of all this, he was too young to be troubled by thoughts of such a nature. All he knew or cared to know was that he was loved by the Squire, whom he had long secretly idolized in his heart of hearts, and that he had been adopted as a little son, instead of being kindly tolerated as a nameless stranger.

Bertie was very happy.

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.

“I could talk to that funny old sailor who came here last month; I understood him quite well. I think I must have lived once in France. Do they wear red caps there and blue jerseys, and sing when they take their boats down the river? I feel as if I’d dreamed something like that once.”

“Or seen it, perhaps,” answered the Squire. “I think you know more about France than I do. Well, we must keep up the French as best we can, and see how far the Latin goes. I daresay you can find a grammar amongst the books up-stairs you seem to know so well.”

Bertie darted away, and soon returned with the desired book.

“It’s Tom’s!” he cried, displaying it eagerly; “I always know Tom’s books from Charley’s, because they’re so much more untidy. See, he’s burnt his name on this one with the poker. I wonder if anybody scolded him for spoiling the cover?”

The Squire sat quite still for a few minutes, with his eyes upon the book. His mind was far away in the past. He was unconscious for a short time of all outward impressions. It was so many, many years since he had looked upon or handled any of the possessions of his lost children. An odd thrill ran through him, and yet it was not all pain. Indeed, there seemed something soothing and healing in the sense that he was about to use one of the familiar books that had belonged to the buried past. That battered Latin grammar brought back a host of memories to the mind that for fifteen long years had striven to banish them, and yet these memories brought with them now almost as much of pleasure as of pain.

Bertie did not disturb the Squire’s reverie by one word. He seemed to know by intuition that he was thinking of his dead son; and by and by, in token of his unspoken sympathy, the child bent his head and pressed his soft cheek against the hand that still held the old book.

Then the Squire awoke from his dream, and put his arm about the little boy.

“Now let us see how much you know,” he said, in his usual quiet way; “let us see if you ever learned anything like this before.”

And after this fashion Bertie’s education began.

Every morning brought its hours of study in the library, and as Bertie loved his books, and was bent above all things on pleasing the Squire, he progressed rapidly, having evidently been well grounded before, and being able to push on at a great rate.

Then there were other pleasures in store for him too, for one day the Squire said, quite suddenly,—

“You must begin to learn something of farming, if you are to be my little boy, Bertie. Can you be ready every fine morning at nine o’clock to come round the place with me when I go to see after things?”

Bertie’s face glowed with pleasure as he gave a glad assent; and behold, upon the very next morning he found himself arrayed in extra strong boots and tanned leather leggings up to his knees, “just like papa’s” as he proudly remarked to Pritchard in the hall, and with his top-coat buttoned well up and his dog-whip in his hand, he awaited the Squire in a a state of joyous impatience.

Just as the clock struck nine, the dining-room door opened, and out he came, and Bertie’s kiss and greeting that morning were more joyously childlike than perhaps they had ever been before.

The great dog Sam was as pleased as anybody at an arrangement that did not divide his allegiance, and hand in hand, with the dog at their heels, the Squire and his little adopted son commenced their round of the farm and stables.

This part of the premises was quite new to Bertie. He had had leave to ramble anywhere about the garden, but he had never been told that he might visit the yard or the farm; and, with his ingrained sense of obedience, he had never allowed himself to trespass without leave, although he had many times wished he might investigate the mysteries of those many long sheds and high brick walls.

But this way of doing things was better than any dream.

The Squire was careful to explain as much to the child as he could take in at first. He let him count the cows in their stalls, and gave him material for many sums to be worked out afterwards as to the quantities of milk and butter. He let him watch whilst they were loosed and turned out to graze in the rich meadows below, and encouraged him to caress the pretty Alderney whose acquaintance he had made in the fields.

He showed him the different pigs, and explained their “points” to him; he let him look at the horses, and told anecdotes about several of them that were listened to with deep attention.

When the more serious business of the day began, and orders were given to the different men, and consultations held with the bailiff as to the disposal of cattle or the rotation of crops, Bertie listened with all his ears, trying to look as much like the Squire as possible, secretly imitating his attitudes, and repeating to himself some phrase that struck him as particularly fine.

He was dismissed presently to the garden and the park, as the Squire had to prolong his inspection by a trudge over some ploughed land, too heavy for Bertie to traverse: but the little boy went happily away, much delighted by his morning’s work, and quite convinced that there was nobody in the whole world half so wise or so kind as the Squire.

And a few days later there was a new surprise for Bertie.

He dined every day now at the Squire’s luncheon hour, not only on Sundays, as in old times; and one day, as they rose from table, they heard the sound of horses’ feet upon the gravel drive outside, and the Squire looked at the clock and said,—

“Why, it is later than I thought. Run and get your hat and coat, Bertie. We ought to be off almost at once, or we shall be benighted.”

Bertie ran off in a great state of delight, not quite knowing what was in store, but certain that it would be something very nice. Nor was he disappointed, for when he came down there was the Squire’s own bay standing ready saddled at the door, and beside it a smaller and slighter horse, very gracefully made and very pretty, also a bay, at whom the master was looking very critically as the groom led him up and down before him.

“Now, Bertie,” he said, facing round as the child approached, “I have got you something to ride, and as no pony could keep up with Castor, I have had to get you something bigger than I meant at first. He is very fast, but at the same time quite gentle, and his mouth is very good. Do you think you can manage him? If you feel at all afraid, say so, for it is not the least use mounting a thoroughbred horse unless you mean to be master.”

Bertie looked at the horse and then up into the Squire’s face; he was flushed with excitement, but his mouth was firmly set.

“I’m not a bit afraid,” he answered, quietly. “I should like to ride him very much.”

“Very good; you shall.”

So Bertie was lifted into the saddle, and he gathered up his reins and settled himself in his seat in a way that showed him no novice in the art of horsemanship. The little horse stepped daintily back and forth, as if longing to be off; but Bertie’s gentle voice and hands controlled him, and he stood still, arching his neck and pawing the ground with his foot, until the Squire was mounted and gave the word to start.

How Bertie enjoyed that ride he never could afterwards express. It seemed like the realization of his brightest dream to be galloping along the soft slushy roads beside the Squire, mounted on a horse who seemed ready to fly, yet who was so gentle that the child had no real trouble in controlling him.

There is something infectious in the utter gladness of heart with which childhood can enter into new pleasures. The sight of Bertie’s happy face and shining eyes brought many a smile to the grave countenance of the Squire, and he looked down with much tenderness at the little boy at his side, and once it seemed almost as if an unwonted tear stood in his eye. Bertie, at least, glancing up at the moment, almost fancied that he had seen it, and wondered what it meant.

When they drew rein by and by, and walked their horses quietly along the lonely road, Bertie looked up once again into the Squire’s face and asked with great interest,—

“Used you to take Tom and Charley out with you when you rode, like you are taking me to-day?”

“Yes, they very often came with me.”

“I wonder if they liked it as much as I do.”

“You like it so very much, then?”

“Oh yes, don’t I! I think it’s splendid!” cried Bertie, with a burst of enthusiasm unusual with him. “I don’t think anything could be nicer in all the world than to go riding with you!”

The Squire smiled, rather a sad smile perhaps, but once he had rarely smiled at all.

“Please tell me about Tom and Charley,” went on Bertie, with eager interest. “Mrs. Pritchard can tell me all about what they did at home; but she can’t tell me about other things, because she didn’t see. I want to know about them when they went riding with you. What did they do? and where did you go? and what did they like best to talk about when you went out? And did Mary and Violet ever come too?”

Bertie forgot in his eagerness and excitement that he had never heard from the Squire’s lips a single word about the sons and daughters he had lost; and he did not know that for fifteen long years their names had never even passed his lips. He asked his questions in absolute ignorance or oblivion of all these facts, and when the father began to tell little anecdotes of the rides he and his children had taken together long, long ago, Bertie listened with undivided interest and pleasure, not in the least realizing—how should he?—that this moment was almost as great a turning-point in his benefactor’s life as the one when he took the child in his arms in the lonely churchyard and called him his adopted son.

But so it was. The barrier of reserve that had locked itself like an icy wall about his heart had melted beneath the warm sunshine of a little child’s love. The silence of fifteen long, dreary years had been broken at last, and a load like a leaden weight had rolled away with it.

That night the faithful Pritchard remarked to his wife,—

“I’ve never seen the master look so like himself since last summer fifteen years.”

And Mrs. Pritchard wiped her eyes and answered,—

“’Tis the child as has done it, for sure, bless his little heart! Wasn’t I always sure as he would bring a blessing with him when he came?”