“I know James is good and kind, grampa,” the girl said earnestly; “but you see, he is not very amusing, and Richard is very nice.”

“Nice!  Yes,” the old soldier said; “a fair weather sort of niceness, Aggie.  Richard Horton is the squire’s nephew, and I don’t wish to say anything against him; but mark my words, and remember them, there’s more goodness in James’s little finger, than there is in his whole body.  But there, I am a fool to be talking about it.  There is your cousin calling you, in the garden.  Go along with you.”

The girl went off slowly, wondering at her grandfather’s earnestness.  She knew she liked her old playmate far better than Richard Horton, although the latter’s attentions pleased and flattered her.  The old soldier went straight off to the squire’s study.

“Squire,” he said, “you remember that talk we had, three years ago, when your nephew’s answer came to your letter, telling him that Aggie was found.  I told you that I would wager he had made up his mind to marry her.  You laughed at me; but I was right.  Child though she still is, he is already paving the way for the future.”

“Master Richard certainly is carrying on a sort of flirtation with the little witch,” the squire said, smiling; “but as she is such a mere child as you say, what does it matter?”

“I think it matters a great deal,” the old soldier said seriously.  “I see, squire, the young fellow has quite regained your good opinion; and unless I am mistaken, you have already thought, to yourself, that it would not be a bad thing if they were to come together someday.

“I have thought it over, and have made up my mind that, in spite of your four years’ continued kindness to me, and of the warm friendship between us, I must go away for a time.  My box is still lying at Exeter, and I would rather tramp the country again, and live on it and my pension, than stay here and see my darling growing up a woman with that future before her.  I am sorry to say, squire, that what you call my prejudice is as strong as ever.  I doubt that young fellow as strongly as I did before he came home.  Then, I only had his past conduct and his letter to go by.  Now I have the evidence of my own senses.  You may ask me what I have against him.  I tell you—­nothing; but I misdoubt him from my heart.  I feel that he is false, that what he was when a boy, he is now.  There is no true ring about him.”

The squire was silent for a minute or two.  He had a very sincere friendship and liking for his companion, a thorough confidence in his judgment and principles.  He knew his self-sacrificing nature, and that he was only speaking from his love for his grandchild.

“Do not let us talk about it now, old friend,” he said quietly.  “You and I put, before all other things, Aggie’s happiness.  Disagreement between us there can be none on the subject.  Give me tonight to think over what you have said, and we will talk about it again tomorrow.”