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.

"I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn't
know about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she nodded
confidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he knows, he sent
me to you. He told me I was to come because you were lonely.

"But you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a quiver in
her voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!"