They had a world of their own, too, other than the material world around them, and one quite unknown to any but themselves. It was the world of the Squire’s buried past, that for many long years he had shut away in his own heart and had striven to forget. A long closed door had at last been unlocked by a childish hand, and old memories awakened into a new life that seemed to bring them a strange sense of peace and consolation.
Tom and Charley, Mary and Violet, the gentle mother and the baby Donald, were now as household words on the lips of one who had thought never to speak their names again. To the little boy, who was never tired of hearing stories of their brief lives, they were real and living friends, whose personality was as vivid to him as if they still ran races in the hall and flocked about their father at dusk to beg for the stories he always kept for them.
The Squire was called upon as imperiously now for stories as ever in the sweet days of the happy past, and no stories were so eagerly welcomed as those that told of the children whom he began to look on as not lost, but only gone before.
There was one story that Bertie longed to hear, but that he had never asked for yet. Many times the request had been on the tip of his tongue, but had never actually passed his lips. He had heard a part of the story from Mrs. Pritchard, he had imagined it many times for himself, but he had never heard it from the Squire, and he felt that until he did so he should never be entirely satisfied.
It was Christmas day, and the day had been full of pleasure and interest to little Bertie. Upon the previous afternoon the happy work had begun in the distribution of Christmas dinners amongst the Squire’s people and the poor folks of the place. Early in the day there had been another distribution of warm clothing and bright scarlet cloaks to the old people, and after morning service a great dinner in the laundry for all the Squire’s laborers and workpeople who were not married, and preferred this way of dining to solitary meals or those taken with families who perhaps preferred their room to their company.
The Squire and Bertie had visited them at dinner, and enjoyed seeing their happy, jovial faces and the gusto with which they fell to upon the good cheer before them; but what had delighted the child most was the big Christmas tree in the barn for the youngsters of the place, where all kinds of things were given away and nobody was forgotten.
It was many, many years since the Squire had shown himself as he did this year. Christmas at the Manor House had always been kept with almost feudal or mediæval liberality and hospitality, and the tree, that had been inaugurated by the last lady of the Manor only a year or two before her death, had always been an institution since; but it was fifteen years since the Squire had seen it or since he had helped to give away its load of presents.
Bertie had not been forgotten. He had come in for a lion’s share of pretty things, trifles that children prize so much. The old servants had each their little offering for the child they all loved. David’s clever fingers had made a wonderful cap out of sea-gulls’ feathers, which Mrs. Pritchard had hung upon the tree at his earnest request, and the Squire had been represented by articles of a more costly and serviceable kind. But Bertie’s pleasure had been less for himself than in seeing so many other people happy. He was learning in a very practical and emphatic way that it is more blessed to give than to receive.
And now all the excitement of the day was over, even the seven o’clock dinner with the Squire, when they had both partaken of the fatted turkey, which was said to have done credit to the care bestowed on it. Eight o’clock had struck, and it was nearly Bertie’s bed-time, but he fearlessly followed the Squire into his library and climbed upon his knee as he settled himself in his easy-chair.
There had been a long silence between them, and then Bertie asked, softly,—