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.
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