"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.
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