True to the Old Flag (Historical Novels - American Cycle). G. A. Henty

at having arrived too late, and told him of the efforts that had been made to find the child. The sergeant listened in grave silence.

      "I am glad it is so," he said, after a pause. "I have misjudged the squire, and I am glad of it. It will be a blow to me to lose the child. I do not pretend that it won't; but it is for her good, and I must be content. He can hardly object to my seeing her sometimes, and if I know that she is well and happy, that is all I care for; and now the sooner it's over the better. Can she come up this evening?"

      "Surely she can," John Petersham said. "The squire dines at five. If you will bring her up at six, I will take her in to him."

      And so it was arranged, and in his walk with Aggie, afterwards, the sergeant told her the history of her parents, and that Squire Linthorne was her other grandfather, and that she was to go up and see him that evening.

      Aggie had uttered her protest against fate. She did not wish to leave her grampa who had been so good to her, and Mrs. Walsham, and James. The description of the big house and its grandeurs, and the pleasures of a pony for herself, offered no enticement to her; and, weeping, she flung her arms round her grandfather's neck and implored him not to give her up.

      "I must, my dear. It is my duty. I wish to God that it were not. You know how I love you, Aggie, and how hard it is for me to part with you; but it is for your good, my darling. You mayn't see it now, but when you get older you will know it. It will not be so hard now on me, dear, nor on you, as it would have been had I given you up two years ago; but we have learned to do a little without each other."

      "But you will come and see me, just as you have here, won't you?" Aggie said, still weeping.

      "I hope so, my dear. You see, the squire is your father's father, while I am only your mother's father, and somehow the law makes him nearer to you than I am, and he will have the right to say what you must do."

      "I won't stay with him. I won't," Aggie said passionately, "if he won't let you come."

      "You must not say that, dear," the sergeant said. "We must all do our duty, even when that duty is hard to do, and your duty will be to obey the squire's orders, and to do as he tells you. I have no doubt he will be very kind, and that you will be very happy with him, and I hope he will let you see me sometimes."

      It was a long time before the child was at all reconciled. When her sobs began to cease, her grandfather told her what she was to do when she saw the squire.

      "You will remember, my dear, that I have been more fortunate than he has. I have had you all these years, and he has had no one to love or care for him. You must remember that he was not to blame, because he objected to his son marrying my daughter. They were not in the same position of life, and it was only natural that he should not like it, at first; and, as I told you, he was coming home to make them both happy, when he found it was too late.

      "You must think, dear, that while I have been happy all these years with you, he has been sorrowing and grieving, and you must try and love him, and make up to him for what he has suffered. I know you will not forget your old friends. You will love me whether you see me often or not; and Mrs. Walsham, who has been very kind to you; and James, you know, who saved your life."

      "I shall never forget anyone, grampa. I shall always love you better than anyone," the child exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck with a fresh burst of tears.

      "There, there, my pet," the sergeant said soothingly. "You must not cry any more. I want you to look your best this evening, you know, and to do credit to us all. And now, I think we have settled everything, so we will be going back to tea."

      That evening, the squire was sitting by himself in the great dining room, occasionally sipping the glass of port, which John Petersham had poured out before he left the room. The curtains were drawn, and the candles lighted; for it was late in September, and the evenings were closing in fast; and the squire was puzzling over John Petersham's behaviour at dinner.

      Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passing around him, he had been struck with the old butler's demeanour. That something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quiet and methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in the service. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was already supplied. He had spilled the wine in pouring it out. He had started nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even thought that he had seen tears in his eyes. Altogether, he was strangely unlike himself.

      Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John had, with almost unnecessary earnestness, declared there was nothing. Altogether, the squire was puzzled. With any other servant, he would have thought he had been drinking, but such a supposition, in John's case, was altogether out of the question.

      He could have had no bad news, so far as the squire knew, for the only children he had, had died young, and he had no near relatives or connections. It was ridiculous to suppose that John, at his age, had fallen in love. Altogether, the squire failed to suggest to himself any explanation of his old butler's conduct, and had just concluded, philosophically, by the reflection that he supposed he should know what it was sooner or later, when the door of the room quietly opened.

      The squire did not look up. It closed again as quietly, and then he glanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child was standing there--a girl with soft smooth hair, and large eyes, and a sensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing. Her hands were clasped before her, and she was standing in doubt whether to advance. There was something so strange, in this apparition in the lonely room, that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashed across him, vaguely, that there was something familiar to him in the face and expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and at the same instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was a connection between the appearance of the child, and the matter he had just been thinking of--John Petersham's strange conduct. He was still looking at her, when she advanced quietly towards him.

      "Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."

      A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair back.

      "Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?"

      "Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am Aggie Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me, grampa said I was to give you this, and then you would know;" and she held out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some fourteen years old; and a watch and chain.

      "I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it in your face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long.

      "Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her towards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed down his cheeks.

      "I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn't know about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she nodded confidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he knows, he sent me to you. He told me I was to come because you were lonely.

      "But you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a quiver in her voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!"

      "But where do you come from, my dear? and how did you get here? and what have you been doing, all these years?"

      "Grampa brought me here," the child said. "I call him grampa, you know, because I did when I was little, and I have always kept to it; but I know, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought me here, and John--at least he called him John--brought me in. And I have been living, for two years, with Mrs. Walsham down in the town, and I used to see you in church, but I did not know that you were my grandpapa."

      The squire, who was holding her close to him while she spoke, got up and rang the bell; and John opened the door, with a quickness that showed that he had been waiting close to it, anxiously waiting a summons.

      "John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand. This is the happiest day of my life."

      The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever since John Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two, first came to the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his father,