“Was it naughty of me to go into grandpapa’s library, Mrs. Pritchard?”
The good woman started visibly.
“The Squire’s library, you mean, dearie?”
“Yes, I know he’s the Squire; but he seems like grandpapa, you know; and he said I had found a name for him, and then he found one for me. Grandpapa is a nicer name than Squire, you know. I don’t think I ever knew a squire before.”
“He did not mind you calling him so? Well, to be sure, he is always kind and good. But, Master Bertie dear, you must not go there without leave. It’s only the nurseries that belong to you.”
Bertie looked perplexed and sorrowful, but said nothing. The look upon his face touched his kind friend, and she added, reassuringly—,
“It isn’t anything as has vexed him with you, dearie, but he’s had a deal of trouble has the Squire, and there’s some things as it hurts him to talk of, and one of them is children.”
Bertie’s eyes were very wide open now, brimful of eager intelligence.
“I don’t understand, please, Mrs. Pritchard. Why do children hurt him?”
“Because, dearie, he once had five little ones of his own; and there came a dreadful sickness here one year, and they all five died within a fortnight; and the Squire has never been the same man since, and no child has ever set foot inside the house, till you came three days ago.”