her bedroom.

"Why, you have got a fire!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I never saw
a fire in a bedroom, before."

"I didn't light it for the cold, miss," the housekeeper said; "but
because it is a long time since the room was slept in before, and
because I thought it would be cheerful for you. I shall sleep in the
next room, till things are settled, so that, if you want anything, you
will only have to run in."

"Thank you," Aggie said gratefully. "It does all seem so big; but I am
sure not to want anything. Thank you."

"Here is your box, miss. Would you like me to help undress you?"

"Oh, no!" Aggie laughed. "Why, of course I can undress myself;" and she
laughed at the idea of assistance being required in such a matter.

"Then, good night!" the housekeeper said. "I shall leave the door ajar,
between the two rooms, when I come to bed."

The next morning, soon after breakfast, Sergeant Wilks was ushered into
the study, where the squire was expecting him. The two men had had hard
thoughts of each other, for many years. The squire regarded the
sergeant as a man who had inveigled his son into marrying his daughter,
while the sergeant regarded the squire as a heartless and unnatural
father, who had left his son to die alone among strangers. The
conversation with John Petersham had taught the sergeant that he had
wronged the squire, by his estimate of him, and that he was to be
pitied rather than blamed in the matter. The squire, on his part, was
grateful to the sergeant for the care he had bestowed upon the child,
and for restoring her to him, and was inclined, indeed, at the moment,
to a universal goodwill to all men.

The sergeant was pale, but self possessed and quiet; while the squire,
moved, by the events of the night before, out of the silent reserve in
which he had, for years, enveloped himself, was agitated and nervous.
He was the first to speak.

"Mr. Wilks," he said. "I have to give you my heartfelt thanks, for
having restored my granddaughter to me--the more so as I know, from
what she has said, how great a sacrifice you must be making. John has
been telling me of his conversation with you, and you have learned,
from him, that I was not so wholly heartless and unnatural a father as
you must have thought me; deeply as I blame myself, and shall always
blame myself, in the matter."

"Yes," the sergeant said. "I have learned that I have misread you. Had
it not been so, I should have brought the child to