The Squire, as he found the child grew more composed and quiet, began to return to his former state of mind as regarded his position in the house.
“But you must understand, Bertie, that the nursery is your room, and that this is mine. You must not come here without leave.”
The child’s face put on a look of distress and perplexity.
“Isn’t this a library!” he said.
“Yes; this is my library.”
“I always used to sit in the library when I wanted to,” he said, appealingly. “I never did any harm. I like the smell of the books, you know. Ours used to smell just the same.”
“Yours?” interrogated the Squire, hoping to elicit some further intelligence.
“Grandpapa’s,” was the prompt response; but there Bertie stuck fast. The moment he tried to recollect anything, everything fled away in painful confusion; reminiscences sprang unconsciously to his lips, but eluded him pitilessly the moment he tried to arrange his ideas and seize upon a memory of the past. The tears again stood in his eyes, and he put up his hands, crying piteously,—
“Oh, why can’t I remember? Why does it all run away so fast?”
The Squire had to turn comforter again.