Drifted ashore;

THE Squire’s study had a westerly aspect and as evening drew on the sunset rays streamed into the quaint, quiet room and flooded it with golden light. The old calf-bound books upon the long rows of shelves took all manner of rich hues, and the picture over the fireplace, representing a beautiful woman with two fair children beside her, seemed to awake to a new and smiling life.

The Squire had been a little less self-possessed than usual upon this particular day. Work seemed irksome to him. He had not been able to give undivided attention to his bailiff’s accounts of the farm and stock, and shortly after he had finished his lunch he ordered his horse and set out for a ride over the estate, feeling that air and exercise would be more congenial to him in his present mood than any sedentary work could be. He did not examine into his state of mind, nor ask himself why it was that he was disturbed and unlike himself; but he recognized that such was the case, and accepted it without comment or question.

He returned home as the sun was slowly sinking in the west, and went straight to his study as usual, but when he stood upon the threshold he stopped suddenly short and stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed with intent scrutiny upon something in the room that appeared to give him the keenest surprise.

Nothing very remarkable to other eyes was presented by the spectacle of that quiet room bathed in the golden sunset, only upon the cushioned seat of the great oriel window sat a little boy with a delicate-featured, pale face and a pair of wistful dark eyes.

The child leaned his head against the window and gazed intently out upon the western sky, painted with all the gorgeous hues of sunset; and he was evidently entirely unconscious of his present surroundings or that his solitude had been invaded.

The Squire stood for some minutes gazing fixedly at the little intruder. A frown had quickly clouded his face when his eyes had first fallen upon the childish figure; but as he stood there in the shadow of the doorway, and noticed the perplexed and settled sadness of the boy’s expression and the hungry, unsatisfied longing in his earnest gaze, the frown slowly faded and a more gentle look came into the weather-beaten face. Still, discipline was discipline, and orders were orders; the child had no right to be there, and the Squire was too much the master in his own house not to feel a passing sense of displeasure at this direct infringement of his commands.

He walked forward into the room and settled himself in his usual chair, without taking the least notice of the child perched up in the window-seat.

Minutes flew by, and still the silence remained unbroken. The Squire turned over his papers, but he did not master their contents in his usual rapid way. His ears were keenly alive to the faint sounds that proceeded from the window behind him, and an impatient wish that Mrs. Pritchard would come and claim her little charge rose more than once in his mind.

This ignoring of the child’s presence in the room seemed even to himself strained and unnatural; and yet he had no business to be there at all, and the Squire knew that it would never do to encourage such a breach of discipline.

Suddenly he was aware that a small soft hand was laid upon his own, and a sweet little voice said, in accents of eager, tremulous surprise,—

“Grandpapa!”

The Squire turned quickly in his chair to meet the pleading, earnest gaze of those liquid brown eyes fixed upon him with an almost pathetic intensity.

“Grandpapa!” said the child again, but this time with more of distressed uncertainty in his tone, and the delicate little lips began to quiver as the boy glanced up into the unresponsive face before him.

“Why do you call me that, little boy?” asked the Squire, gravely.

The child’s hand was pressed to his forehead, his eyes brightened unnaturally.

“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly, and a tear gathered upon the long lashes.

After all, the Squire was a father, and, although that very fact made the sight of the boy painful to him, he was not on that account hard-hearted, nor could he look with an unmoved countenance upon the distress of a little child.

He drew the little fellow gently between his knees, and it seemed as if there was something in the fatherly touch that went home to the heart of the lonely child in some overpowering way, for he suddenly laid his head against the Squire’s shoulder and burst into convulsive weeping.

There was something very touching in the nameless sorrow of the little lonely child, who was so utterly forsaken in the great world, without home or kindred or even a name to call his own. His partial realization of his anomalous position gave a pathos to his distress that raised it above the level of ordinary childish grief.

The Squire could have found it in his heart to wish that he had not been the recipient of this burst of sorrow, but he could not for a moment refuse to comfort the child, who clung to him as to a natural protector. He put his arm round the sobbing boy, and by and by said, in kindly accents,—

“There, there, my little man, there, there! Do not cry so bitterly. What is it all about? Let us see if something can’t be done to make it better.”

The tone rather than the words seemed to soothe the agitated boy; his sobs were slowly checked, and, although he did not lift his head from its resting-place upon the broad shoulder, the little frame ceased to tremble so convulsively and gradually became still.

When the child’s tears seemed fairly conquered, the Squire put him a little farther away and looked at him steadily, with an intent expression upon his fine, commanding face.

The little boy looked up timidly, but he did not seem alarmed by the glance he encountered. Children have a marvellous instinct in distinguishing between the sternness of an inflexible yet just and kindly nature and that of harshness and tyranny.

His wistful glance travelled upwards till it rested upon the snow-white hair that gave to the Squire a more venerable appearance than his years indicated, and again a little smile shone out from the sad eyes, and the same word sprang in a whisper to the lips that quivered yet with the past fit of weeping,—

“Grandpapa!”

“So that is to be your name for me, is it?” questioned the Squire, kindly. “Very well, it will do as well as any other. And what am I to call you?”

The child’s hand went up to his head.

“I don’t know,” he said, pitifully.

“Well, then, I must think of something for myself. You have given me a name, so I must give you one. What shall it be, I wonder? Shall we say Bertie? That gives us a certain license, you see, and does not commit us to anything very definite, eh, Bertie?”

The child smiled a little uncertain, tearful smile. The name did not appear to arouse any associations; but still it was something to have a name again.

“And now, Bertie, tell me why it was you came here at all? Where is Mrs. Pritchard?”

“She is having her tea. She left me in the nursery, and said she should soon be back. I came down-stairs to go into the garden, and then I saw the door open, and the books, and I came in to look. I like a library; I always used”—but here the look of bewilderment swept over the boy’s face again, and he concluded, confusedly, “I mean, nobody was there, and it all looked nice and quiet, and so I came in and sat there, and then you came back, and I thought—”

“Never mind, never mind what you thought,” interposed the Squire, hastily, for the look in the child’s eyes was painfully bewildered and strained. “Tell me if you know who I am.”

“You are the Squire,” answered Bertie, promptly, looking more natural and childlike again. “I saw you ride out on your big brown horse to-day; and yesterday I saw you walking in the garden and telling the men what to do. Mrs. Pritchard says that all this big house belongs to you. Are you ever lonely living here all by yourself?”

The Squire looked down into the child’s upturned face, and a curious shade passed over his own.

“What do you know about being lonely?” he asked, in an odd, muffled voice.

Bertie put his hand over his eyes; and then, after a moment’s pause, looked up again smiling.

“I was lonely down by the sea with David. He was very kind, and I liked him, and so was his mother. But I was lonely with them. It isn’t half so lonely here with you.”

“You are not lonely, then, with Mrs. Pritchard in the nursery, I suppose?”

Bertie hesitated.

“Mrs. Pritchard is very kind,” he said, with a little courtly air that was almost amusing,—“very kind indeed; but, somehow, this feels more natural, you know.”

The Squire, as he found the child grew more composed and quiet, began to return to his former state of mind as regarded his position in the house.

“But you must understand, Bertie, that the nursery is your room, and that this is mine. You must not come here without leave.”

The child’s face put on a look of distress and perplexity.

“Isn’t this a library!” he said.

“Yes; this is my library.”

“I always used to sit in the library when I wanted to,” he said, appealingly. “I never did any harm. I like the smell of the books, you know. Ours used to smell just the same.”

“Yours?” interrogated the Squire, hoping to elicit some further intelligence.

“Grandpapa’s,” was the prompt response; but there Bertie stuck fast. The moment he tried to recollect anything, everything fled away in painful confusion; reminiscences sprang unconsciously to his lips, but eluded him pitilessly the moment he tried to arrange his ideas and seize upon a memory of the past. The tears again stood in his eyes, and he put up his hands, crying piteously,—

“Oh, why can’t I remember? Why does it all run away so fast?”

The Squire had to turn comforter again.

“Never mind, little chap, it will all come back of itself some day. Don’t you worry your head over it; that will make matters worse instead of better. Ah! and here comes Mrs. Pritchard, looking for her lost lamb. She will wonder what has brought you here.”

Mrs. Pritchard’s face expressed a good deal of alarm and confusion as she appeared in the doorway, guided there by the sound of voices.

“Indeed, sir, but I’m truly sorry!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea the child had left the nurseries. I truly am most—”

“Never mind, never mind, Mrs. Pritchard,” answered the Squire, quietly. “Children will stray, and I do not expect you to alter your usual routine on his account. Take him away now; but if he is a good boy, you may dress him and send him down to dessert. He will be all the better for a little more change, and will have less time to think.”

Mrs. Pritchard looked deeply gratified, and thanked the Squire as if he had been conferring some personal favor upon herself.

“We have settled upon a name for him, Mrs. Pritchard,” continued the Squire. “He is to be Master Bertie, until we know any better. He will be wanting his tea now; you had better take him away.”

Bertie followed the housekeeper obediently, and the Squire was left alone to his own meditations, and as he turned to his papers he sighed once or twice.

“Poor little fellow!” he said; “poor little fellow! Well, I suppose it will all come right some day soon. Very odd turn of affairs altogether.”

Meantime Bertie was silently discussing his substantial nursery tea, whilst Mrs. Pritchard sat by, busy with her needle.

By and by the little boy spoke.

“Was it naughty of me to go into grandpapa’s library, Mrs. Pritchard?”

The good woman started visibly.

“The Squire’s library, you mean, dearie?”

“Yes, I know he’s the Squire; but he seems like grandpapa, you know; and he said I had found a name for him, and then he found one for me. Grandpapa is a nicer name than Squire, you know. I don’t think I ever knew a squire before.”

“He did not mind you calling him so? Well, to be sure, he is always kind and good. But, Master Bertie dear, you must not go there without leave. It’s only the nurseries that belong to you.”

Bertie looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said nothing. The look upon his face touched his kind friend, and she added, reassuringly—,

“It isn’t anything as has vexed him with you, dearie, but he’s had a deal of trouble has the Squire, and there’s some things as it hurts him to talk of, and one of them is children.”

Bertie’s eyes were very wide open now, brimful of eager intelligence.

“I don’t understand, please, Mrs. Pritchard. Why do children hurt him?”

“Because, dearie, he once had five little ones of his own; and there came a dreadful sickness here one year, and they all five died within a fortnight; and the Squire has never been the same man since, and no child has ever set foot inside the house, till you came three days ago.”

Bertie’s gaze was very intent.

“Did they all die?”

“Ay, that they did, and the mother too; and he was left all alone.”

Bertie looked dreamily out of the window.

“What is dying?” he asked.

Mrs. Pritchard hesitated how to reply; and Bertie gave the answer to his own question.

“Isn’t it when God takes people away with Him that people say they are dead?”

The ready tears had started to Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes.

“Ay, indeed ’tis so, Master Bertie dear; but we’re sadly given to forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Bertie, slowly, “but I can’t remember who told me.” He looked hard at Mrs. Pritchard and asked, earnestly, “Do you think God knows all about me?”

“Ay, my dearie, I suppose He knows everything.”

“I wish He would let me remember,” said the child, wistfully. “Do you think He will?”

“Yes, dearie, I do. He is very good to us, for all He sends us trouble sometimes. You can ask Him, you know, when you say your prayers to-night; you can ask Him any time.”

Bertie’s hand was pressed to his head, his eyes glowed strangely.

“Somebody said—” He paused, and then went on again, “Somebody said that we must not choose ourselves, only ask God to choose for us. I can’t remember just what it was. But it was like Jesus, you know, in the garden, when He said “Thy will be done,” to everything. I must say “Thy will be done” too, mustn’t I, about remembering things again? I know they said that—I can’t have made it up.”

He was growing distressed, as he so easily did when the vanished memory eluded his grasp; but Mrs. Pritchard took him into her motherly embrace and soothed and quieted him. Very soon the child was himself again, and looked at her with a smile.

“I’ve got ‘Our Father’ left still, you see, Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, with a sort of quaint gravity that was very touching in its way. “He is my Father, isn’t He? even if I’m quite lost, He knows where I am, and He takes care of me, I’m sure. I don’t think He’ll ever quite forget me, and p’raps He’ll let me find my real home some day; but I’ll always say ‘Thy will be done’ about it.” Then, looking quickly up into the kind face above him, he asked, “Perhaps grandpapa will explain it all and help me. He had to say ‘Thy will be done’ when God took his little children away, and I suppose that was very hard.”