“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.