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 cond