"I have learned that I have misread you.

Had it not been so, I should have brought the child to you long ago--should never have taken her away, indeed.

Perhaps we have both misjudged each other." "I fear that we have," the squire said, remembering the letters he wrote to his son, in his anger, denouncing the sergeant in violent language.
"It does not matter, now," the sergeant went on quietly; "but, as I do not wish Aggie ever to come to think ill of me, in the future, it is better to set it right.
"When I left the army, I had saved enough money to furnish a house, and I took one at Southampton, and set up taking lodgers there.

I had my pension, and lived well until my wife died--a year before your son came down, from London, with another gentleman, and took my rooms.

My daughter was seventeen when her mother died, and she took to managing the house.