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 conduct. He was still
looking at her, when she advanced quietly towards him.
"Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."
A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair
back.
"Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?"
"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am Aggie
Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me,
grampa said I was to give you this, and then you would know;" and she
held out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some fourteen years old; and a
watch and chain.
"I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it in your
face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long.
"Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her
towards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed down
his cheeks.
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