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.”