“I could never leave you now, papa.”
The Squire looked down at him with a smile.
“I hope not, my little son; but it is possible you may some day remember your own parents, and that they may want you back. But whatever happens we know will be for the best, and we must always be strong and of a good courage, and do what is right. No happiness ever comes from shirking duty.”
Bertie looked up wistfully.
“You have not heard anything, have you, about me?”
The Squire smiled reassuringly.
“No, no, my little boy; I am only speaking of a possible future, and one that we ought perhaps to wish for. But I think it quite possible, under all the circumstances of the case, that your parents, did we succeed in tracing them, would allow you to remain in my care as my little adopted son; and we do not even know that they are living, for they might well have been lost that stormy night when you were washed ashore at the fisherman’s hut.”
Bertie’s face was very grave. He did not often speculate now upon the past, and the Squire rarely alluded to the subject. He was quite content to dwell in the present, and it seemed highly probable, as Dr. Lighton had said, that he would never awake to recollection, but that the oblivion of childhood would sweep away the vanished past, even when the physical injury had gradually cured itself.
It was impossible for the child to wish for any change. He was so entirely happy in his new home, and loved his father so devotedly, that there was no room in his heart for the vague yearnings that had troubled him once, and he felt as if he belonged by birthright to the place he now occupied.
And new interests and pleasures were in store for him now in the return of the Arbuthnots to their long-deserted house.