With Wolfe in Canada: The Winning of a Continent

by G. A. Henty

  Chapter 5: A Quiet Time.

  As the sergeant was telling the story, the squire had sat with his faceshaded by his hand, but more than one tear had dropped heavily on thetable.

  "I wish I could say as much," he said sadly, when the other ended. "Iwish that I could say that my conscience is clear, Mr. Wilks. I havemisjudged you cruelly, and that without a tithe of the reason, whichyou had, for thinking me utterly heartless and cruel. You will haveheard that I never got those letters my son wrote me, after he was ill,and that, when I returned home and received them, I posted toSouthampton, only to find that I was too late; and that, for a year, Idid all in my power to find the child. Still, all this is no excuse. Irefused to forgive him, returned his letters unanswered, and left him,as it seemed, to his fate.

  "It is no excuse to say that I had made up my mind to forgive him, whenhe was, as I thought, sufficiently punished. He did not know that. Asto the poverty in which you found him, I can only plead that I did notdream that he would come to that. He had, I knew, some money, for I hadjust sent him his half-year's allowance before he wrote to me aboutthis business. Then there was the furniture of his rooms in London, hishorses, jewels, and other matters. I had thought he could go on verywell for a year.

  "Of course, I was mistaken. Herbert was always careless about money,and, no doubt, he spent it freely after he was first married. He wouldnaturally wish to have everything pretty and nice for his young wife,and, no doubt, he counted upon my forgiving him long before the moneywas spent.

  "I am not excusing myself. God knows how bitterly I have condemnedmyself, all these years. I only want to show you that I had no idea ofcondemning him to starvation. He was my only son, and I loved him. Ifelt, perhaps, his rebellion all the more, because he had never beforegiven me a day's trouble. I was harsh, obstinate, and cruel.

  "I have only the one old excuse. I never thought it would turn out asit did. What would I give, if I could say, as you can, that you have aclear conscience, and that you acted always as it seemed to be yourduty!

  "And now, Mr. Wilks, now that I have heard your story, I trust that youwill forgive my past suspicions of you, and let me say how much Ihonour and esteem you for your conduct. No words can tell you how Ithank you, for your goodness and kindness to my little granddaughter;our little granddaughter, I should say. You have the better right, athousand-fold, to her than I have; and, had I been in your place, Icould never have made such a sacrifice.

  "We must be friends, sir, great friends. Our past has been saddened bythe same blow. All our hopes, in the future, are centred on the sameobject."

  The two men rose to their feet together, and their hands met in a firmclasp, and tears stood in both their eyes.

  Then the squire put his hand on the other's shoulder, and said, "Wewill talk again, presently. Let us go into the next room. The littleone is longing to see you, and we must not keep her."

  For the next hour, the two men devoted themselves to the child. Nowthat she had her old friend with her, she felt no further misgivings,and was able to enter into the full delight of her new home.

  The house and its wonders were explored, and, much as she was delightedwith these, the gardens and park were an even greater excitement andpleasure. Dancing, chattering, asking questions of one or the other,she was half wild with pleasure, and the squire was no less delighted.A new light and joy had come into his life, and with it the ten years,which sorrow and regret had laid upon him, had fallen off; for,although his habits of seclusion and quiet had caused him to beregarded as quite an old man by his neighbours, he was still threeyears short of sixty, while the sergeant was two years younger.

  It was a happy morning for them, all three; and when John Petershamwent in, after lunch, to the kitchen, he assured his fellow servantsthat it was as much as he could do to keep from crying with joy, at thesight of the squire's happy face, and to hear him laugh and joke, as hehad not done for eight years now.

  The sergeant had stopped to that meal, for he saw, by the manner inwhich the squire asked him, that he should give pain if he refused; andthere was a simple dignity about the old soldier, which would haveprevented his appearing out of place at the table of the highest in theland.

  "Now, pussy," the squire said, when they had finished, "you must amuseyourself for a bit. You can go in the garden again, or sit with Mrs.Morcombe in her room. She will look you out some picture books from thelibrary. I am afraid there is nothing very suited to your reading, butwe will soon put all that right. Your grandfather and I want to haveanother quiet chat together."

  "Now I want your advice," he said when they were both comfortablyseated in the study. "You see, you have been thinking and planningabout the child for years, while it has all come new upon me, so I mustrely upon you entirely. Of course, the child must have a governess,that is the first thing; not so much for the sake of teaching her,though, of course, she must be taught, but as a companion for her."

  "Yes," the sergeant assented, "she must have a governess."

  "It will be a troublesome matter to find one to suit," the squire saidthoughtfully. "I don't want a harsh sort of Gorgon, to repress herspirits and bother her life out with rules and regulations; and I won'thave a giddy young thing, because I should like to have the child withme at breakfast and lunch, and I don't want a fly-away young woman whowill expect all sorts of attention. Now, what is your idea? I have nodoubt you have, pictured in your mind, the exact sort of woman youwould like to have over her."

  "I have," the sergeant answered quietly. "I don't know whether it wouldsuit you, squire, or whether it could be managed; but it does seem, tome, that you have got the very woman close at hand. Aggie has been fortwo years with Mrs. Walsham, who is a lady in every way. She is veryfond of the child, and the child is very fond of her. Everyone says sheis an excellent teacher. She would be the very woman to take charge ofher."

  "The very thing!" the squire exclaimed, with great satisfaction. "Butshe has a school," he went on, his face falling a little, "and there isa son."

  "I have thought of that," the sergeant said. "The school enables themto live, but it cannot do much more, so that I should think she wouldfeel no reluctance at giving that up."

  "Money would be no object," the squire said. "I am a wealthy man, Mr.Wilks, and have been laying by the best part of my income for the lasteight years. I would pay any salary she chose, for the comfort of suchan arrangement would be immense, to say nothing of the advantage andpleasure it would be to the child. But how about the boy?"

  "We both owe a good deal to the boy, squire," the sergeant saidgravely, "for if it had not been for him, the child would have beenlost to us."

  "So she was telling me last night," the squire said. "And he reallysaved her life?"

  "He did," the sergeant replied. "But for his pluck and promptitude shemust have been drowned. A moment's hesitation on his part, and nothingcould have saved her."

  "I made up my mind last night," the squire said, "to do something forhim. I have seen him before, and was much struck with him."

  "Then, in that case, squire, I think the thing could be managed. If thelad were sent to a good school, his mother might undertake themanagement of Aggie. She could either go home of an evening, or sleephere and shut up her house, as you might arrange with her; living, ofcourse, at home, when the boy was home for his holidays, and onlycoming up for a portion of the day."

  "That would be a capital plan," the squire agreed warmly. "The verything. I should get off all the bother with strange women, and thechild would have a lady she is already fond of, and who, I have nodoubt, is thoroughly qualified for the work. Nothing could be better. Iwill walk down this afternoon and see her myself, and I have no doubt Ishall be able to arrange it.

  "And now about yourself--what are your plans?"

  "I shall start tomorrow morning on my tramp, as usual," the sergeantanswered quietly; "but I shall take care, in future, that I do not comewith my box within thirty miles or so of Sidmouth. I do not wantAggie's future to be,
in any way, associated with a showman's box. Ishall come here, sometimes, to see her, as you have kindly said I may,but I will not abuse the privilege by coming too often. Perhaps youwon't think a day, once every three months, to be too much?"

  "I should think it altogether wrong and monstrous!" the squireexclaimed hotly. "You have been virtually the child's father, for thelast seven years. You have cared for her, and loved her, and worked forher. She is everything to you, and I feel how vast are your claims toher, compared to mine; and now you talk about going away, and coming tosee her once every three months. The idea is unnatural. It is downrightmonstrous!

  "No, you and I understand each other at last; would to Heaven we haddone so eight years back! I feel how much more nobly you acted in thatunhappy matter than I did, and I esteem and honour you. We are bothgetting on in life, we have one common love and interest, we stand inthe same relation to the child, and I say, emphatically, that you havea right, and more than a right, to a half share in her. You must goaway no more, but remain here as my friend, and as joint guardian ofthe child.

  "I will have no refusal, man," he went on, as the sergeant shook hishead. "Your presence here will be almost as great a comfort, to me, asto the child. I am a lonely man. For years, I have cut myself loosefrom the world. I have neither associates nor friends. But now thatthis great load is off my mind, my first want is a friend; and whocould be so great a friend, who could enter into my plans and hopes forthe future so well, as yourself, who would have an interest in themequal to my own?"

  The sergeant was much moved by the squire's earnestness. He saw thatthe latter had really at heart the proposal he made.

  "You are very good, squire," he said in a low voice; "but even if Icould bring myself to eat another man's bread, as long as I can workfor my own, it would not do. I am neither by birth nor education fittedfor such a position as that you offer to me."

  "Pooh, nonsense!" the squire said hotly. "You have seen the world. Youhave travelled and mixed with men. You are fit to associate as an equalwith anyone. Don't you deceive yourself; you certainly do not deceiveme.

  "It is pride that stands in your way. For that you are going to riskthe happiness of your granddaughter, to say nothing of mine; for youdon't suppose that either of us is going to feel comfortable and happy,when the snow is whirling round, and the wind sweeping the moors, tothink of you trudging along about the country, while we are sittingsnugly here by a warm fire.

  "You are wanting to spoil everything, now that it has all come right atlast, by just the same obstinate pride which wrecked the lives of ourchildren. I won't have it, man. I won't hear of it.

  "Come, say no more. I want a friend badly, and I am sure we shall suiteach other. I want a companion. Why, man, if I were a rich old lady,and you were a poor old lady, and I asked you to come as my companion,you would see nothing derogatory in the offer. You shall come as mycompanion, now, or if you like as joint guardian to the child. Youshall have your own rooms in the house; and when you feel inclined tobe grumpy, and don't care to take your meals with the child and me, youcan take them apart.

  "At any rate, try it for a month, and if you are not comfortable then Iwill let you go, though your rooms shall always be in readiness foryou, whenever you are disposed to come back.

  "Come, give me your hand on the bargain."

  Sergeant Wilks could resist no longer. The last two years work, withoutthe child, had indeed been heavy, and especially in winter, when thewind blew strong across the uplands, he began to feel that he was nolonger as strong as he used to be. The prospect of having Aggie alwaysnear him was, however, a far greater temptation than that of ending hisdays in quiet and comfort.

  His hand and that of the squire met in a cordial grip, and the matterwas settled. Fortunately, as the sergeant reflected, he had still hispension of ten shillings a week, which would suffice to supply clothesand other little necessaries which he might require, and would thussave him from being altogether dependent on the squire.

  Aggie was wild with delight, when she was called in and informed of thearrangement. The thought of her grandfather tramping the country,alone, had been the one drawback to the pleasure of her life at Mrs.Walsham's, and many a time she had cried herself to sleep, as shepictured to herself his loneliness. That he was to be with her always,was to give up his work to settle down in comfort, was indeed a delightto her.

  Greatly pleased was she, also, to hear that Mrs. Walsham was to beasked to come up to be her governess.

  "Oh, it will be nice!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just likethe fairy stories you used to tell me, grampa, when everyone was madehappy at the end by the good fairy. Grandpapa is the good fairy, andyou and I are the prince and princess; and James--and what is to bedone with James? Is he to come up, too?"

  "No, my dear," the squire said, smiling. "James is to go to a goodschool, but you will see him when he comes home for his holidays. Butthat part of it is not arranged yet, you know; but if you will put onyour hat, you can walk down with us to the town, and introduce me toMrs. Walsham."

  Mrs. Walsham had just dismissed her pupils, when the party arrived, andwas thinking how quiet and dull the house was without Aggie, when thedoor opened, and the child rushed in and threw her arms round her neck.

  "Oh, I have such good news to tell you! Grandpapa is so good and kind,and grampa is going to live with us, and you are to come up, too, andJames is to go to school. Isn't it all splendid?"

  "What are you talking about, Aggie?" Mrs. Walsham asked, bewildered, asthe child poured out her news.

  "Aggie is too fast, madam," the squire said, entering the roomaccompanied by the sergeant. "She is taking it all for granted, whileit has yet to be arranged. I must apologize for coming in withoutknocking; but the child opened the door and rushed in, and the bestthing to do was, we thought, to follow her.

  "I have come, in the first place, to thank you for your great kindnessto my little granddaughter, and to tell your son how deeply I feelindebted to him, for having saved her life two years ago.

  "Now, Aggie, you run away and look for your friend, while I talkmatters over with Mrs. Walsham."

  Aggie scampered away to find James, who was at work at his books, andto tell him the news, while the squire unfolded his plans to Mrs.Walsham.

  His offers were so handsome that Mrs. Walsham accepted them, without aninstant's hesitation. She was to have the entire charge of the childduring the day, with the option of either returning home in theevening, when Aggie went in to dessert after dinner, or of livingentirely at the Hall. The squire explained his intention of sendingJames to a good school at Exeter, as an instalment of the debt he owedhim for saving the child's life, and he pointed out that, when he wasat home for his holidays, Aggie could have her holidays, too, and Mrs.Walsham need only come up to the Hall when she felt inclined.

  Mrs. Walsham was delighted with the offer, even more for James's sakethan her own, although the prospect for herself was most pleasant. Tohave only Aggie to teach, and walk with, would be delightful after themonotony of drilling successive batches of girls, often inordinatelytiresome and stupid. She said, at once, that she should preferreturning home at night--a decision which pleased the squire, for hehad wondered what he should do with her in the evening.

  The arrangement was at once carried into effect. The school was brokenup, and, as the parents of the children were almost all tenants of thesquire, they offered no objection to the girls being suddenly left ontheir hands, when they heard that their teacher was going to live asgoverness at the Hall. Indeed, the surprise of Sidmouth and theneighbourhood, at learning that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's wasthe squire's granddaughter, and that the showman was therefore aconnection of the squire, and was going also to live at the Hall, wasso great, that there was no room for any other emotion. Save forwrecks, or the arrival of shoals of fish off the coast, or of troublesbetween the smugglers and the revenue officers, Sidmouth had fewexcitements, and the present news afforded food for endless talk andconjecture.


  On comparing notes, it appeared that there was not a woman in the placewho had not been, all along, convinced that the little girl at Mrs.Walsham's was something more than she seemed to be, and that theshowman was a man quite out of the ordinary way. And when, on thefollowing Sunday, the sergeant, who had in the meantime been to Exeter,walked quietly into church with the squire, all agreed that thewell-dressed military-looking man was a gentleman, and that he had onlybeen masquerading under the name of Sergeant Wilks until, somehow orother, the quarrel between him and the squire was arranged, and thelittle heiress restored to her position; and Sidmouth remained in thatbelief to the end.

  The sergeant's military title was henceforth dropped. Mr. Linthorneintroduced him to his acquaintances--who soon began to flock in, whenit was known that the squire's granddaughter had come home, and that hewas willing to see his friends and join in society again--as "My friendMr. Wilks, the father of my poor boy's wife."

  And the impression made was generally favourable.

  None had ever known the exact story of Herbert's marriage. It wasgenerally supposed that he had married beneath him; but the opinion nowwas that this must have been a mistake, for there was nothing in anyway vulgar about the quiet, military-looking gentleman, with whom thesquire was evidently on terms of warm friendship.

  The only person somewhat dissatisfied with the arrangement was JamesWalsham. He loved his mother so much, that he had never offered theslightest dissent to her plan, that he should follow in his father'sfootsteps. She was so much set on the matter, that he could never bringhimself to utter a word in opposition. At heart, however, he longed fora more stirring and more adventurous life, such as that of a soldier orsailor, and he had all along cherished a secret hope, that somethingmight occur to prevent his preparing for the medical profession, and soenable him to carry out his secret wishes. But the present arrangementseemed to put an end to all such hopes, and, although grateful to thesquire for sending him to a good school, he wished, with all his heart,that he had chosen some other way of manifesting his gratitude.

  Four years passed quietly. James Walsham worked hard when at school,and, during his holidays, spent his time for the most part on board thefishermen's boats. Sometimes he went up to the Hall, generally at theinvitation of Mr. Wilks.

  "Why don't you come oftener, Jim?" the latter asked him one day. "Aggiewas saying, only yesterday, that you used to be such friends with her,and now you hardly ever come near her. The squire is as pleased as I amto see you."

  "I don't know," Jim replied. "You see, I am always comfortable withyou. I can chat with you, and tell you about school, and about fishing,and so on. The squire is very kind, but I know it is only because ofthat picking Aggie out of the water, and I never seem to know what totalk about with him. And then, you see, Aggie is growing a young lady,and can't go rambling about at my heels as she used to do, when she wasa little girl. I like her, you know, Mr. Wilks, just as I used to do;but I can't carry her on my shoulder now, and make a playfellow ofher."

  "I suppose that's all natural enough, Jim," Aggie's grandfather said;"but I do think it is a pity you don't come up more often. You know weare all fond of you, and it will give us a pleasure to have you here."

  Jim was, in fact, getting to the awkward age with boys. When younger,they tyrannize over their little sisters, when older they may againtake pleasure in girls' society; but there is an age, in every boy'slife, when he is inclined to think girls a nuisance, as creaturesincapable of joining in games, and as being apt to get in the way.

  Still, Jim was very fond of his former playmate, and had she been stillliving down in Sidmouth with his mother, they would have been as greatfriends as ever.

  At the end of the fourth year, Richard Horton came back, after anabsence of five years. He was now nearly twenty, and had just passed aslieutenant. He was bronzed with the Eastern sun, and had grown from agood-looking boy into a handsome young man, and was perfectly consciousof his good looks. Among his comrades, he had gained the nickname of"The Dandy"--a name which he accepted in good part, although it had notbeen intended as complimentary, for Richard Horton was by no means apopular member of his mess.

  Boys are quick to detect each other's failings, and several sharpthrashings, when he first joined, had taught Richard that it was veryinexpedient to tell a lie on board a ship, if there was any chance ofits being detected. As he had become one of the senior midshipmen, hisnatural haughtiness made him disliked by the younger lads; while, amongthose of his own standing, he had not one sincere friend, for there wasa general feeling, among them, that although Richard Horton was apleasant companion, and a very agreeable fellow when he liked, he wasnot somehow straight, not the sort of fellow to be depended upon in allemergencies.

  By the captain and lieutenants, he was considered a smart youngofficer. He was always careful to do his duty, quiet, and gentlemanlyin manner, and in point of appearance, and dress, a credit to the ship.Accordingly, all the reports that his captain had sent home of him hadbeen favourable.

  Great as was the rage and disappointment which Richard had felt, whenhe received the letter from his uncle telling him of the discovery ofhis long-lost granddaughter, he had the tact to prevent any signs ofhis feelings being visible, in the letter in which he replied. Thesquire had told him that, although the discovery would, of course, makea considerable difference in his prospects, he should still, if thereports of his conduct continued satisfactory, feel it his duty to makea handsome provision for him.

  "Thanks to my quiet life during the last ten years," the squire hadwritten, "I have plenty for both of you. The estate will, of course, goto her; but, always supposing that your conduct will be satisfactory, Ishall continue, during my lifetime, the allowance you at presentreceive, and you will find yourself set down, in my will, for the sumof twenty thousand pounds."

  Richard had replied in terms which delighted the squire.

  "You see, the boy has a good heart," he said, as he handed the letterto Mr. Wilks. "No one could express himself better."

  His companion read the letter over in silence.

  "Charmingly expressed," he said as he returned it. "Almost toocharmingly, it seems to me."

  "Come, come, Wilks, you are prejudiced against the young fellow, forthat business with Aggie and young Walsham."

  "I hope I am not prejudiced, squire," his friend replied; "but when Iknow that a lad is a liar, and that he will bring false accusations toshield himself, and when I know that he was detested by all who came incontact with him--John Petersham, the gardener, and the grooms--Irequire a good deal more than a few satisfactory reports from hiscaptain, who can know very little of his private character, and asoft-soldering letter like that, to reinstate him in my good opinion. Iwill wager that, if you and I had been standing behind him when heopened your letter, you would have heard an expression of verydifferent sentiments from those he writes you here.

  "Look at this: 'I regret, indeed, my dear uncle, that my new cousinmust have such a bad opinion of me, owing to my roughness in thatunfortunate affair, which I have never ceased to regret; but I hopethat, when we meet, I shall be able to overcome the dislike which shemust feel for me.'

  "Bah!" the old soldier said scornfully. "I would lay all my pension, toa shilling, that boy has already made up his mind that someday he willmarry Aggie, and so contrive to get the estates after all."

  The squire burst into a good-humoured laugh.

  "It's well I don't take up your wager. Such ideas as that might occurto you and me, but hardly to a lad not yet seventeen."

  "Well, we shall see," the other said, cooling down. "I hope I may bemistaken in him. We shall see when he comes home."

  When he did come home, the old soldier could find but little fault withthe young man. He had a frank and open manner, such as is common to menof his profession. He was full of life and anecdote. His manner to thesquire was admirable, affectionate, and quietly respectful, without anyair of endeavouring especially to ingratiate himself with him. Nor
could the ex-sergeant find anything to complain of in the young man'smanner towards himself. He took the first opportunity, when they werealone, to say how glad he had been, to hear that his grandfather hadmet with a friend and companion in his lonely life, and to express ahope that the bad opinion, which he had doubtless formed of him fromhis conduct when a boy, would not be allowed to operate against himnow.

  But, though there was nothing he could find fault with, the oldsoldier's prejudices were in no way shaken, and, indeed, his antipathywas increased, rather than diminished, by the young officer's conducttowards Aggie. It might be, of course, that he was only striving toovercome the prejudiced feeling against him; but every time the oldsoldier saw him with his granddaughter, he felt angry.

  In point of fact, Aggie was disposed to like Richard, even before hisarrival. Six years had eradicated every tinge of animosity for thatshove on the sand. His letters had been long, bright, and amusing, andwith the mementos of travel which he picked up in the ports of Indiaand China, and from time to time sent home to his uncle, there wasalways a little box with some pretty trinket "for my cousin." She foundhim now a delightful companion. He treated her as if she had beenseventeen, instead of eleven; was ready to ride or walk with her, or totell her stories of the countries he had seen, as she might choose; andto humour all her whims and fancies.

  "Confound him and his pleasant manners!" the ex-sergeant would mutterto himself, as he watched them together, and saw, as he believed, inthe distance, the overthrow of the scheme he had at heart. "He isturning the child's head; and that foolish boy, James, is throwing awayhis chances."

  James, indeed, came home from school for the last time, two or threeweeks after Richard Horton's return. He was now nearly eighteen, and,although a broad and powerful fellow, was still a boy at heart. He didnot show to advantage by the side of Richard Horton. The first time hewent up to the Hall, after his return, the latter had met him withoutstretched hand.

  "I am glad to meet you again," he said. "I behaved like a blackguard,last time we met, and you gave me the thrashing which I deserved. Ihope we shall get on better, in the future."

  Aggie and her two grandfathers were present, and James Walshamcertainly did not show to advantage, by the side of the easy andself-possessed young officer. He muttered something about its being allright, and then found nothing else to say, being uncomfortable, and illat ease. He made some excuse about being wanted at home, and took hisleave; nor did he again go up to call. Several times, the old soldierwent down to Sidmouth to see him, and on one occasion remonstrated withhim for not coming up to the Hall.

  "What's the use?" James said, roughly. "I have got lots of reading todo, for in two months, you know, I am to go up to London, to walk thehospitals. No one wants me up there. Aggie has got that cousin of hersto amuse her, and I should feel only in the way, if I went."

  Mr. Wilks was fairly out of temper at the way things were going. He wasangry with James; angry with the squire, who evidently viewed withsatisfaction the good understanding between his granddaughter andnephew; angry, for the first time in his life, with Aggie herself.

  "You are growing a downright little flirt, Miss Aggie," he said oneday, when the girl came in from the garden, where she had been laughingand chatting with her cousin.

  He had intended to speak playfully, but there was an earnestness in histone which the girl, at once, detected.

  "Are you really in earnest, grampa?" she asked, for she still retainedthe childish name for her grandfather--so distinguishing him from thesquire, whom she always called grandpapa.

  "No; I don't know that I am in earnest, Aggie," he said, trying tospeak lightly; "and yet, perhaps, to some extent I am."

  "I am sure you are," the girl said. "Oh, grampa! You are not reallycross with me, are you?" and the tears at once sprang into her eyes. "Ihave not been doing anything wrong, have I?"

  "No, my dear, not in the least wrong," her grandfather said hastily."Still, you know, I don't like seeing Jim, who has always been so goodand kind to you, quite neglected, now this young fellow, who is not fitto hold a candle to him, has turned up."

  "Well, I haven't neglected him, grampa. He has neglected me. He hasnever been near since that first day, and you know I can't very well goround to Sidmouth, and say to him, 'Please come up to the Hall.'"

  "No, my dear, I know you can't, and he is behaving like a young fool."

  "Why is he?" Aggie asked, surprised. "If he likes sailing about betterthan coming up here, why shouldn't he?"

  "I don't think it's for that he stays away, Aggie. In fact, you see,Jim has only just left school, and he feels he can't laugh, and talk,and tell you stories about foreign countries, as this young fellow can,and having been so long accustomed to have you to himself, he naturallywould not like the playing second fiddle to Richard Horton."

  "But he hasn't been here much," the girl said, "ever since I came here.He used to be so nice, and so kind, in the old days when I lived downthere, that I can't make out why he has changed so."

  "My dear, I don't think he has changed. He has been only a boy, and thefact is, he is only a boy still. He is fond of sailing, and of theamusements boys take to, and he doesn't feel at home, and comfortablehere, as he did with you when you were a little girl at his mother's.But mind, Aggie, James is true as steel. He is an honourable andupright young fellow. He is worth fifty of this self-satisfied,pleasant-spoken young sailor."

  "I know James is good and kind, grampa," the girl said earnestly; "butyou see, he is not very amusing, and Richard is very nice."

  "Nice! Yes," the old soldier said; "a fair weather sort of niceness,Aggie. Richard Horton is the squire's nephew, and I don't wish to sayanything against him; but mark my words, and remember them, there'smore goodness in James's little finger, than there is in his wholebody. But there, I am a fool to be talking about it. There is yourcousin calling you, in the garden. Go along with you."

  The girl went off slowly, wondering at her grandfather's earnestness.She knew she liked her old playmate far better than Richard Horton,although the latter's attentions pleased and flattered her. The oldsoldier went straight off to the squire's study.

  "Squire," he said, "you remember that talk we had, three years ago,when your nephew's answer came to your letter, telling him that Aggiewas found. I told you that I would wager he had made up his mind tomarry her. You laughed at me; but I was right. Child though she stillis, he is already paving the way for the future."

  "Master Richard certainly is carrying on a sort of flirtation with thelittle witch," the squire said, smiling; "but as she is such a merechild as you say, what does it matter?"

  "I think it matters a great deal," the old soldier said seriously. "Isee, squire, the young fellow has quite regained your good opinion; andunless I am mistaken, you have already thought, to yourself, that itwould not be a bad thing if they were to come together someday.

  "I have thought it over, and have made up my mind that, in spite ofyour four years' continued kindness to me, and of the warm friendshipbetween us, I must go away for a time. My box is still lying at Exeter,and I would rather tramp the country again, and live on it and mypension, than stay here and see my darling growing up a woman with thatfuture before her. I am sorry to say, squire, that what you call myprejudice is as strong as ever. I doubt that young fellow as stronglyas I did before he came home. Then, I only had his past conduct and hisletter to go by. Now I have the evidence of my own senses. You may askme what I have against him. I tell you--nothing; but I misdoubt himfrom my heart. I feel that he is false, that what he was when a boy, heis now. There is no true ring about him."

  The squire was silent for a minute or two. He had a very sincerefriendship and liking for his companion, a thorough confidence in hisjudgment and principles. He knew his self-sacrificing nature, and thathe was only speaking from his love for his grandchild.

  "Do not let us talk about it now, old friend," he said quietly. "Youand I put, before all other things, Aggie's happiness. Disagreementbetwee
n us there can be none on the subject. Give me tonight to thinkover what you have said, and we will talk about it again tomorrow."