“You are better to-day, Bertie,” said the Squire, kindly. “Rather shaky on your legs still, eh?”
“A little,” answered Bertie, laughing. “I feel rather funny when I walk; and my arm is very stiff. Take me on your knee, please, papa; I want to talk to you.”
The Squire lifted him up, and Bertie nestled down comfortably in his accustomed resting-place, drawing a long breath of satisfaction.
“That is just nice!” he said.
“What is nice?”
“Why, to know that I shall be your little boy always now, and that nobody can ever want to take me away so long as you want me.”
The Squire held the child a little more closely in his arms, but his voice was quite steady as he said,—
“What makes you speak so, Bertie?”
“I have been talking to mother,” answered the little boy. “We have arranged it all. I am to go on living with you,—if you want me.”
Bertie felt a sort of tremor run through the Squire’s strong frame, but his voice was as quiet and composed as ever.