“So she was telling me last night,” the squire said.  “And he really saved her life?”

“He did,” the sergeant replied.  “But for his pluck and promptitude she must have been drowned.  A moment’s hesitation on his part, and nothing could have saved her.”

“I made up my mind last night,” the squire said, “to do something for him.  I have seen him before, and was much struck with him.”

“Then, in that case, squire, I think the thing could be managed.  If the lad were sent to a good school, his mother might undertake the management of Aggie.  She could either go home of an evening, or sleep here and shut up her house, as you might arrange with her; living, of course, at home, when the boy was home for his holidays, and only coming up for a portion of the day.”

“That would be a capital plan,” the squire agreed warmly.  “The very thing.  I should get off all the bother with strange women, and the child would have a lady she is already fond of, and who, I have no doubt, is thoroughly qualified for the work.  Nothing could be better.  I will walk down this afternoon and see her myself, and I have no doubt I shall be able to arrange it.

“And now about yourself—­what are your plans?”

“I shall start tomorrow morning on my tramp, as usual,” the sergeant answered quietly; “but I shall take care, in future, that I do not come with my box within thirty miles or so of Sidmouth.  I do not want Aggie’s future to be, in any way, associated with a showman’s box.  I shall come here, sometimes, to see her, as you have kindly said I may, but I will not abuse the privilege by coming too often.  Perhaps you won’t think a day, once every three months, to be too much?”

“I should think it altogether wrong and monstrous!” the squire exclaimed hotly.  “You have been virtually the child’s father, for the last seven years.  You have cared for her, and loved her, and worked for her.  She is everything to you, and I feel how vast are your claims to her, compared to mine; and now you talk about going away, and coming to see her once every three months.  The idea is unnatural.  It is downright monstrous!

“No, you and I understand each other at last; would to Heaven we had done so eight years back!  I feel how much more nobly you acted in that unhappy matter than I did, and I esteem and honour you.  We are both getting on in life, we have one common love and interest, we stand in the same relation to the child, and I say, emphatically, that you have a right, and more than a right, to a half share in her.  You must go away no more, but remain here as my friend, and as joint guardian of the child.

“I will have no refusal, man,” he went on, as the sergeant shook his head.  “Your presence here will be almost as great a comfort, to me, as to the child.  I am a lonely man.  For years, I have cut myself loose from the world.  I have neither associates nor friends.  But now that this great load is off my mind, my first want is a friend; and who could be so great a friend, who could enter into my plans and hopes for the future so well, as yourself, who would have an interest in them equal to my own?”