Drifted ashore;

SO the winter days wore happily away, the bond between the Squire and his little adopted son growing ever stronger and stronger; and by slow yet sure degrees the sunshine began to take the golden radiance of spring, the buds upon the bare trees swelled with the stirring life within them, the hedges showed a filmy network of tender green, and the shy wild flowers began to peep out from sheltered sunny corners, smiling up at the sunshine from beneath the protecting roots of great trees, or nodding their heads in friendly greeting to passers-by from cosey nooks in the south slope of a sheltered bank.

Bertie and his friend the Squire welcomed the spring, as all the world does to a greater or less extent. The winter had been a very happy time for them both; but the promise of spring seemed to them to be charged with gladness and brightness for all.

Once when they were crossing the park together, the Squire looked down at his little companion and said,—

“This is the first time that spring has been spring to me for fifteen long years.”

Bertie, who was hunting for primroses in a mossy bank, looked up quickly.

“The years were like one long winter to me,” continued the Squire, looking out straight before him; and then, lifting his hat for a moment, he added, reverently, “But, thank God! that has all passed now.”

Bertie came and took one of the hands of his so-called father and laid his cheek against it.

He knew quite well that this was the Squire’s way of telling him that his coming there had been a source of comfort and happiness.

“I came here in the spring, didn’t I?” he asked. “I think I’ve been here nearly a year—David says so.”

“Yes, it is going on now for a year—a year in April since you were washed ashore. Has it been a happy year to you, my child?”

Bertie glanced up into the face above him with eyes full of love.

“Ever since you let me be your little boy,” he answered, with emphasis, “I have been quite happy.”

“And before?”

“Before I was happy sometimes—when I was with you; but I was often very lonely. If I hadn’t felt sure that God would take care of me, I think I should have been miserable sometimes.”

“But you were sure of that?”

Bertie paused and reflected.

“By and by I was—not just at first—but by and by. And then I found out something for me to do, and then all the rest came easy.”

“What did you find to do?”

“I found out that you were lonely and unhappy, and I wanted to comfort you,” answered the child, very softly. “Because you had no little children of your own left. I didn’t think at first that I could; but by and by you said I did.”

“Yes, my child. We were given to one another, to fill, as it were, the blank that God had thought fit to make in both of our lives. We must trust Him now to leave us to one another, and not to part us unless that too is a part of His holy will.”

Bertie looked up timidly.

“I could never leave you now, papa.”

The Squire looked down at him with a smile.

“I hope not, my little son; but it is possible you may some day remember your own parents, and that they may want you back. But whatever happens we know will be for the best, and we must always be strong and of a good courage, and do what is right. No happiness ever comes from shirking duty.”

Bertie looked up wistfully.

“You have not heard anything, have you, about me?”

The Squire smiled reassuringly.

“No, no, my little boy; I am only speaking of a possible future, and one that we ought perhaps to wish for. But I think it quite possible, under all the circumstances of the case, that your parents, did we succeed in tracing them, would allow you to remain in my care as my little adopted son; and we do not even know that they are living, for they might well have been lost that stormy night when you were washed ashore at the fisherman’s hut.”

Bertie’s face was very grave. He did not often speculate now upon the past, and the Squire rarely alluded to the subject. He was quite content to dwell in the present, and it seemed highly probable, as Dr. Lighton had said, that he would never awake to recollection, but that the oblivion of childhood would sweep away the vanished past, even when the physical injury had gradually cured itself.

It was impossible for the child to wish for any change. He was so entirely happy in his new home, and loved his father so devotedly, that there was no room in his heart for the vague yearnings that had troubled him once, and he felt as if he belonged by birthright to the place he now occupied.

And new interests and pleasures were in store for him now in the return of the Arbuthnots to their long-deserted house.

He did not know they were coming until they had come, and he suddenly met Queenie in the park, face to face, as she was running up to see him and tell him all the news.

He was so surprised that he only stood quite still, staring hard at her, and exclaimed, “Queenie!” in a very astonished voice.

“Bertie!” she answered, mimicking him, and then she began to laugh in her old merry way.

“Why, Bertie, how astonished you look! Didn’t I say we should be home in the spring? Aren’t you pleased to see me back?”

“Yes, very pleased,” answered Bertie, recovering himself. “Are the boys here yet?”

“Not yet. They will be back at Easter. Papa and mamma and I have come home now. Bertie, is it true that the Squire has adopted you properly?”

“I am his little boy now,” answered the child, simply. “He says so.”

“And do you like it?”

“Yes, very much.”

“You like him?”

“I love him.”

“And you’re not dreadfully dull?”

“Oh no!”

Queenie looked at him critically.

“You don’t look as if you were unhappy. You’ve grown, I’m sure. You look quite different from what you did. Are you happy?”

“Yes, very.”

“Well, I’m glad of that,” said Queenie. “I like people to have nice times. I’ve had such fun myself.”

“Have you? Where have you been?”

“Oh, to lots of places. We stayed in ever so many houses, and it was great fun. Sometimes there were other children, and sometimes there weren’t. I liked both, but I think I liked it best when there were no nurseries or schoolrooms; then I was generally with the ladies. I liked to hear them talk, and they gave me pretty things. I’m never troublesome, you know, except to nurse,” added Queenie, shaking her curly head with a merry laugh; “so people like me, and say I’m no trouble, and then I’m not turned out.”

Bertie laughed too, because Queenie’s mirth was infectious.

“Do you know,” went on the little chatterbox, as Bertie turned and walked beside her,—“do you know we are not going to live here much longer? only till midsummer, perhaps not so long?”

“I didn’t know,” answered Bertie. “Why are you going away?”

“Mamma doesn’t like it, nor papa either; and I don’t think I care for it so very much;” and the little maiden put on her grand air, as if her wishes had been of very great consequence in the decision of her parents. “We always used to live in London till papa had this place left to him, and then we came here for a little while; but nobody cares very particular for it, and so they have decided to sell it.”

Bertie opened his eyes wide.

“Then will somebody else buy it, and come and live here?” he asked.

Queenie nodded her head mysteriously.

“Somebody has bought it already.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, somebody you know. Guess who it is.”

“Somebody I know,” repeated Bertie, slowly; “but I know so few people.”

“Then you will guess all the quicker!” answered Queenie, with her merry laugh.

Bertie considered a moment and then said,—

“The Squire?”

“No, not the Squire; he only cares for his own property. Papa says our land is nothing to his; he wouldn’t care for it. Guess again.”

Bertie was puzzled.

“Dr. Lighton?” he asked, doubtfully; but Queenie’s laugh was answer enough.

“No, indeed! Where would he get the money from? Guess again.”

“I can’t; there’s nobody else I know. Are you sure I know him?”

“Of course you do! You must guess. You’ve seen him at our house often and often.”

Bertie paused again, hesitated, and suggested, timidly,—

“Uncle Fred?”

Queenie clapped her hands.

“There! I knew you could guess if you tried. Yes, it’s Uncle Fred. He likes the place, and he has plenty of money now, so he has bought it, and he’s going to come and live here very soon, as soon as he can get married and come over to England.”

Bertie looked mystified.

“Isn’t he in England now?”

“No, he’s in Australia. He likes travelling about, and he went there almost as soon as he left us in the summer, and now he’s going to get married.”

Queenie said these words in a voice that implied a great deal. She tried to excite Bertie’s curiosity by her manner, but he was too simple-minded to understand her moods, and he only said, quite quietly,—

“Is he?”

“Yes, he is; and if you like I’ll tell you all about it. It’s very romantic.”

“What is?”

“Why, Uncle Fred’s marriage.”

“What is romantic?”

Queenie tossed her head, but to tell the plain truth she did not exactly know herself.

“Well, that’s what mamma says when she tells people about Uncle Fred. She says it’s so romantic, and everybody else says the same—so it must be so, you know.”

Bertie had never dreamed of disputing this, so, as he had no answer ready, he merely said,—

“Well?”

“Well,” returned Queenie, settling down to her story with great animation, “this is what has happened. You know, when Uncle Fred was quite a young man, he was very fond of a lady he knew very well, and he wanted to marry her; but he was not very well off, and he did not like to ask her to marry him till he got some money. So he went away to sea to make his fortune, and when he came back after a year or two with a good deal more money, he found that the lady had married somebody else,—he had never told her how fond he was of her, which I think was silly,—and had gone away to live in London. Well, poor Uncle Fred was very sad, for he loved her very much, and he always had fancied that she liked him too. A friend of his told him that people thought the lady had married partly to please her father, for she was very fond of him and very obedient; anyway she was married, and Uncle Fred was too late, so he went back to sea again and tried to forget all about her.”

Queenie paused here, and Bertie asked,—

“Is that all?”

“Of course it isn’t all!” cried Queenie; “all that happened ten years ago.”

“Oh!” returned Bertie, who was getting a little puzzled by Queenie’s romance.

“Yes, all that happened ever so long ago, when Uncle Fred was quite young, and before he came into his money. But he never married even when he was quite rich, because he never had cared for any lady except the one he wanted to marry long ago. Well, last year he went out to Australia, as I told you. He had made a good many friends there before, and he thought he would like to go and see them all again. And when he was at Sydney or Melbourne, or one of those places, he went once to a great party given by some rich man there, and when he got there, who was it, do you think, that he met?”

Queenie’s face told its own tale. Bertie was not very well read in romances, but he could guess the sequel to this one. “I suppose you mean that he met the lady that he wanted to marry once.”

“Yes,” answered Queenie, very impressively, “the lady he is going to marry now—at least he has married her, I suppose, already, and perhaps they are on their way home now.”

“But I thought she had married somebody else,” objected Bertie.

“She did years and years ago, but he died very soon after they were married; only Uncle Fred had never heard of it. Her old father died too, by and by, and she was left all alone; and she had some cousins in Australia who asked her to come and live with them, and so she did. I don’t think she’s been long in Australia; I don’t think her father died till last year or something; anyhow, she was there when Uncle Fred found her last Christmas, and now they will be married and come and live here.”

Bertie’s interest was now fully aroused.

“That will be nice,” he said. “I’m glad nobody’s coming that we don’t know. I like Uncle Fred; he was always very kind to me.”

“He always liked you,” answered Queenie. “He took a fancy to you from the first moment. He will be a nice neighbor for the Squire too; they always got on very well together. I hope he will have a nice wife. He must be very fond of her, so I should think she was nice.”

Bertie was less interested upon this point than upon others.

“Will you ever come here after you go away?”

“Oh, yes; we shall be sure to come and see Uncle Fred sometimes.”

Bertie looked pleased.

“That will be nice. We shall be able to play together, and you won’t forget me. I don’t like people to go right away and forget and get forgotten; it seems rather sad, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know; I don’t think I ever thought about it; but you won’t have a chance of forgetting us, any way. And, Bertie, have you forgotten about the sea-gulls in the Rocky Bay?”

Bertie shook his head and smiled.

“I’ve not forgotten a bit,” he answered, “and I can climb very well now. I’m ready to go as soon as ever the right time comes.”