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.