Drifted ashore;

“SO you have come at last, have you?” said Queenie, tossing her curly head and speaking with a sort of disdainful pride. “I thought you had most likely forgotten all about it.”

Queenie had been waiting for some time by the old oak tree near to the sunk fence, and during that time she had mounted her “high horse,” and was by no means disposed at once to quit her exalted position. A very imperious and exacting young lady could little Miss Arbuthnot show herself when she had a mind to do so.

“You didn’t say any particular time, you know,” answered Bertie, gently.

“I said afternoon,” returned Queenie, with dignity. “That means after dinner, of course. I came as soon as I could get out after dinner, and if you had been what people say you are, you would have done the same.”

“What do people say I am?” asked Bertie.

“They say you are a gentleman,” answered Queenie; “but I don’t feel so sure about it. Do you think you are?”

Bertie shook his head.

“Oh no! I’m only a little boy.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” cried Queenie, impatiently. “What a stupid little boy you must be! I’m only a little girl; but then I’m a lady too, as you can see for yourself.”

Bertie’s eyes opened wide.

“Are you?” he questioned, innocently. “I don’t think I should have known.”

Queenie drew herself up for a moment, as if she were going to walk away in a pet; but, as Bertie did not in the least understand his own enormities and showed no disposition to follow and humble himself, she stopped short and began to laugh instead.

Bertie understood that sort of thing, and he joined in the laugh, without quite knowing why.

“You’re such a funny little boy,” said Queenie. “You’re not a bit like my brothers; but I like you. I think we shall be friends, don’t you?”

“I should like it,” answered Bertie; “only—”

“Well? Only what?”

“Only the Squire didn’t think you’d be allowed to play with me.”

“Did he say so? When?”

“At dinner-time yesterday, when I asked if I might play with you. He said I might; but he didn’t think you’d be let to play with me.”

Queenie laughed and tossed her head.

“I think the Squire is a very clever old man; but you see I’m cleverer still.”

“How?”

“Why, because I do things without asking leave. It saves such a lot of trouble.”

Bertie looked rather scandalized.

“Do you mean you wouldn’t be allowed to play with me if people knew about it?”

“Papa wouldn’t mind,” answered Queenie, quickly; “he lets me do as I like. It’s only mamma who is so tiresome. Mamma wanted me never to go out alone, even in the garden, but papa said it was all nonsense, and that I might. I love papa twice as much as mamma. He’s just given me a pony to ride—such a pretty little pony, brown, with black legs! Would you like to come and see him?”

Bertie’s eyes were shining with a strange light.

“Yes,” he answered. “I should like it very much. I think—I must have had a pony—once.”

“Did you?” questioned Queenie, eagerly. “Oh, if you can ride, we can go out together sometimes. I’ll get papa to say we may. Now come and see my pony. Mamma is out, and papa won’t mind a bit if he does see you.”

Queenie had climbed the sunk fence once before Bertie had joined her, and had put the great trunk of the oak tree between herself and the chance of pursuit by nurse or any other attendant; but now she was eager to retrace her steps, and to display to her new companion the possessions of which she was most proud.

Bertie followed her willingly enough. He felt sure, after what the Squire had said, that he would not object, and as for Queenie’s odd statements regarding her relations with her parents, the little boy did not profess to understand them, nor did he, at the present stage of their acquaintance, feel called upon to interfere or criticise. Queenie’s fearless gaiety of manner exercised a certain fascination upon him, and he was quite ready to let her take the lead, whilst he humbly followed in her wake.

They climbed the sunk fence together, and then Queenie took his hand protectingly and led him up the meadow towards the back of the house.

“We will go round by the farm first,” said Queenie. “I will show you my chickens.”

The farmyard was certainly an attractive spot, and the little mistress was evidently a great favorite with all the men employed there. Hard, stolid faces smiled kindly upon the two children, and rough hands were eager and willing to do their bidding, whatever it might be.

Queenie talked to the laborers with her little air of stately affability that impressed Bertie very much. He was inclined to be shy and silent himself; but the little girl did not know what shyness meant, and chattered away to him and to every one who came near them in a way that evidently made her an immense favorite.

The chickens were very sweet indeed, little fluffy balls of yellow and black. Bertie was delighted with them, and the children spent a good half-hour in the poultry yard, feeding the fowls and laughing at their funny ways.

“I’ll give you some chickens if you like, when they’re big enough to leave the hen,” said Queenie, who loved to patronize.

“I think the Squire has plenty of his own, thank you,” answered Bertie. “I don’t know if he’d care for me to have any more.”

“Do you like his yard as well as ours?” asked Queenie, rather jealously.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

“Never been! Why not?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of it. I’m not sure that he’d like me to go.”

“You could go when he was out.”

But Bertie shook his head resolutely.

“Why not, pray? It would do no harm.”

“I shouldn’t like to go if he hadn’t given me leave,” answered Bertie.

Queenie tossed her head.

“Who taught you to be so strait-laced as all that? Mrs. Pritchard?”

“No,” answered Bertie, slowly; “Mrs. Pritchard never said anything about it.”

Queenie looked at him, and he looked at her, his eyes dreamy and wistful.

“I think you must have been very strictly brought up,” she said, gravely. “That sort of thing would not suit me. You would have much more spirit if you were less particular. You should see my brothers. They don’t care about anything.”

Bertie did not seem convinced by this argument, but he held his peace, as he always did when not quite sure of his ground. Queenie thought she had won a victory, and said graciously,—

“Now we will come and see my pony.”

When Bertie found himself in the stable, he seemed more at home than he had done in the farmyard. He went boldly up to the pony in his box, and stroked and caressed him as if he had known what it was to be on friendly terms with a horse before. The creature responded to his advances and Queenie looked on with a gracious air of approval.

“Why, here is papa!” she cried, suddenly; and Bertie turned round in time to see the gentleman who had stopped the Squire on Sunday entering by the stable door.

“Hullo, Queenie! what are you doing here?” was the quick inquiry; “and what would mamma say?”

“I am showing Bertie my pony,” answered Queenie, running up and taking her father’s hand coaxingly. “I didn’t come alone. I had Bertie with me. You know who Bertie is, don’t you, papa? The little boy who lives with the Squire now.”

Of course Sir Walter had heard the romantic story, and he looked at the child with kindly interest. Bertie took off his cap and gave his hand to the baronet with the gentle courtesy characteristic of him.

“Well, my little lad, and how do you like your new home?” he asked.

Bertie’s eyes grew vaguely sorrowful.

“Everybody is very kind,” he said; adding after a short pause, and rather inconsequently, “Your little girl has been showing me her chickens and her pony.”

“That is right, that is right; and have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes, thank you, sir. I like horses. I think I used to ride on one once.”

That look that always shone in the child’s eyes when he spoke or thought of the vanished past touched the baronet’s kind heart.

“Well, well, you will soon know all about it, no doubt; and meantime, you must come and talk to my little girl as often as you can, and play together and enjoy yourselves. Now run off, Queenie, and take your little friend with you. You can ask Bennet if he has any strawberries to spare for you. Keep in the garden, children. You know, Queenie, mamma does not like your being in the yard or the stable.”

Queenie knew this quite well; but she did not care always to remember such prohibitions, and she knew that her father never enforced discipline with any great authority.

She looked at him with a saucy laugh.

“Mamma would like me to live in a glass case, wrapped up in cotton wool; but I don’t think she’d keep me there long.”

Sir Walter laughed too.

“Now run away, puss, and take Bertie with you; and try to keep out of mischief for one day of your life, if you can.”

Queenie stood on tiptoe to make her father bend down whilst she whispered in his ear,—

“And you’ll make mamma let Bertie come here often? He’s a nice little boy, and has nobody to play with; and it must be so dull for him living all alone with the Squire.”

Sir Walter smiled at his little daughter’s way of pleading her cause.

“It isn’t that you want a playfellow yourself, I suppose?” he questioned. “It’s all for Bertie’s sake, of course. Well, well, I’ll see about it. Yes, certainly, I have no objection to your playing together.”

So Queenie led Bertie away in triumph, saying as she did so,—

“There! I knew papa would let us be friends. Now you will have somebody to talk to when you are dull.”

If Miss Queenie had expected Bertie to be very much impressed by this favor, she was certainly doomed to be disappointed.

“I have somebody to talk to now,” he answered.

“Yes, but not anybody who is any fun,” answered Queenie, quickly. “Grown-up people are so dull.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anybody grown up.”

“Who were you thinking of then?” asked the little girl, regardless of grammar.

“I was thinking of David,” answered Bertie. “I go to see him every day.”

Queenie drew up her head in a very lofty way.

“David!” she repeated, superciliously; “and pray who may David be?”

“He is the fisherman’s boy,” answered Bertie, simply. “He lives in that little cottage on the sandhills down by the sea. I lived there a few days before the Squire took me. David was very kind to me then; and I am very fond of him.”

Queenie’s head was held up very high.

“Very fond of a fisher lad!” she repeated, very slowly and clearly, as if such an idea as that required careful investigation. “Well, perhaps in that case you had better go to your dear David. You will find him much more entertaining than me.”

“No,” answered Bertie, with great gravity; “he isn’t so amusing; but I think he is a good boy. He cares about being good much more than you do.”

Queenie turned round upon Bertie with an air of outraged pride and with eyes that flashed angrily. She pointed imperiously towards the boundary fence that divided the Squire’s property from her father’s.

“If you are going to compare me to your precious David, you need not trouble to come here again. Go to your dear fisher people, since you are so fond of them. It is very plain you are not yet to be my friend.”

And Queenie marched away with her head held very high in the air, and Bertie, after gazing after her very much astonished for some minutes, quietly turned away and wandered home, not at all disturbed by the outbreak, only regarding it as a new development of the odd disposition of his little new friend.