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, who had held the same post before him.

“God be thanked, squire!” he said huskily.

“God be thanked, indeed, John!” the squire rejoined, reverently.  “So this was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you poured out my wine.  How could you keep the secret from me?”

“I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh letting it out, and only the thought that it was better the little lady should tell you herself, as we had agreed, kept it in.  Only to think, squire, after all these years!  But I never quite gave her up.  I always thought, somehow, as she would come just like this.”

“Did you, John?  I gave up hope years ago.  How did it come about, John?”

“Mrs. Walsham told me, as I came out of church today, as she wanted to speak to me.  So I went down, and she told me all about it, and then I saw him—­” John hesitated at the name, for he knew that, perhaps, the only man in the world against whom his master cherished a bitter resentment, was the father of his son’s wife.  “It seems he never saw your advertisements, never knew as you wanted to hear anything of the child, so he took her away and kept her.  He has been here, off and on, all these years.  I heard tell of him, often and often, when I had been down into Sidmouth, but never dreamt as it was him.  He went about the country with a box on wheels with glasses—­a peep show as they calls it.”

The squire winced.

“He is well spoken of, squire,” John said, “and I am bound to say as he doesn’t seem the sort of man we took him for, at all, not by no means.  He did not know you wanted to have her, but he thought it his duty to give her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs. Walsham, and never told her, till yesterday, who she was.  Mrs. Walsham was quite grieved at parting with her, for she says she is wonderfully quick at her lessons, and has been like a daughter with her, for the last two years.”

The child had sat quietly down in a chair, and was looking into the fire while the two men were speaking.  She had done what she was told to do, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next.  Her quick ear, however, caught, in the tones of John Petersham, an apologetic tone when speaking of her grandfather, and she was moved to instant anger.

“Why do you speak like that of my grampa?” she said, rising to her feet, and standing indignantly before him.  “He is the best man in the world, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don’t like him, I can go away to him again.  I don’t want to stay here, not one minute.

“You may be my grandpapa,” she went on, turning to the squire, “and you may be lonely, but he is lonely, too, and you have got a great house, and all sorts of nice things; and you can do better without me than he can, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor grampa!”