The Project Gutenberg eBook of Milly's errand

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Title: Milly's errand

or, Saved to save

Author: Emma Leslie

Release date: November 7, 2024 [eBook #74703]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Alfred Martien, 1873

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74703

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILLY'S ERRAND ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Bob ran to it, and saw that a child was securely lashed

to it.

MILLY'S ERRAND;

OR,

SAVED TO SAVE.

BY

EMMA LESLIE

PHILADELPHIA:

ALFRED MARTIEN

1214 CHESTNUT STREET.

1873.

————————————————————————

Alfred Martien,

PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. THE BROTHERS

CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE WAIF

CHAPTER III. THE COTTAGE HOME

CHAPTER IV. THE WIDOW'S DEATH

CHAPTER V. GOD'S MESSENGER

CHAPTER VI. REST FOR THE WEARY

CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS

CHAPTER VIII. THE DOCTOR'S STORY

CHAPTER IX. MAJOR FERRERS

CHAPTER X. "BLESSED ARE THE MEEK."

CHAPTER XI. CONCLUSION

MILLY'S ERRAND;

OR,

Saved to Save.

CHAPTER I.

THE BROTHERS.

"WE shall have stormy weather, I am thinking, before long." The speaker was an old sailor, and as he spoke, he raised his spy-glass again to take another look at the distant horizon. "It's coming, lads," he said, addressing two stout grown boys, who had just come up with a donkey-cart to gather the sea-weed that lay in heaps on the sandy shore.

The elder of the two looked out upon the sea as the old man spoke. "There's a ship in the offing over there, ain't there?" he said, pointing to a dim speck in the distance.

"Yes; I, can't make much of her yet, but she'd better tack for the harbor pretty soon, or she won't get in, and once on these rocks here, it'll be all up with her."

It was a dangerous part of the coast; and as the old man resumed his professional walk, he cast another anxious glance towards the vessel, and then at the signs of the weather, which every moment became more threatening.

The boys went on gathering the sea-weed, working most industriously.

Presently the younger one stopped to rest on his hooked stick for a minute or two. "What heaps of money that old doctor must have," he said, looking at the cart, and thinking of what had been promised them for a dozen loads of the sea-weed.

"He ain't old, I tell you," said his brother, likewise stopping to rest for a minute or two, for it was hard work dragging up the heaps of heavy, wet sea-weed. "Mother says he ain't more 'n thirty, or forty at the most."

"Well, he looks old, anyway; his hair's gray, and his face is always puckered up."

"Yes, and nobody can tell what's the matter with him, and nobody dares to go near him."

"It's a pity he ain't poor, and got to work for a poor old mother like we have, Jack." And the younger boy sighed as he thought of the miserable little hovel where his mother lay bedridden with rheumatics.

"Yes, or else that he'd look after the people about, and do some good with his money. They say he's the richest and most miserable man for miles around. But look here, if we stand talking about Dr. Mansfield like this, we shall never get the sea-weed into his garden, and then mother won't get her new blanket."

And the two set to work again at once. They were fisher-boys, but gathered sea-weed at odd times when not employed with their nets. Dr. Mansfield's gardener had ordered a dozen loads, promising to pay them liberally for it; and it was this that had led them to speak of the eccentric doctor himself.

All the village talked about him, more or less, for he was a puzzle to everybody, and various were the rumors afloat concerning him. The one most generally received and believed in was, that he had either accidentally, or in the heat of passion, killed a brother or cousin, or some near relative, and that although the crime could not be proved against him, he knew he was guilty, and at times suffered agonies of remorse in consequence.

The truth of this was doubted by some, but none could dispute that the doctor was a most wretched man, a misery to himself, and often to every one about him. For days and often nights were passed when no one dared to go near him, when the ceaseless tramp of his footsteps up and down was only interrupted by the agonizing groans that broke from his lips.

The boys had heard of this, and probably were thinking of it just now, for the younger paused again in his work; after a minute of two he said, "The doctor's got one of his bad turns again, Jack."

"How do you know that?" asked his brother somewhat sharply, for, like some other elder brothers, Jack was a little jealous of Bob receiving any information except through him.

"I heard one of the servants tell the gardener, he was nearly raving this morning, and that no one dared go near him."

"But I would go," said Jack boldly.

"You'd get killed if you did," said Bob; "they say he's in such an awful passion, that he's mad nearly if any one goes near his room."

"Well, I don't care; I'd go and ask him what was the matter—whether he was ill, or something like that."

Bob shook his head, and evidently thought it was a good thing his brother could not put his dangerous experiment into execution. "I shouldn't like to do that," he said, speaking very slow and thoughtfully; "but if I could do anything that would help him, or do him good, I'd like to do it, for I don't suppose he will enjoy his beautiful garden half so much as we do getting this sea-weed for it."

"Enjoy it? I don't know so much about enjoying it," said Jack; "we've got to do it, and the sooner it's done the better, for we shall have a squall before long, I know."

"Never mind, it'll only blow up the more weed for to-morrow," said Bob, who always took a cheerful view of things.

"I don't know so much about that," returned his brother, again looking seawards. "That vessel don't seem to be making much headway, and she'll stand no chance if the storm comes on before she reaches the harbor, and it will come pretty soon," he added, as the wind came sweeping over the sea in fitful sobs and gusts.

The shades of evening had gathered in by the time their cart was full, and with a last look at the laboring vessel, the boys turned homewards.

"Mother, there's a fine big ship in the offing, and if she don't make the harbor pretty soon, she'll be on the rocks before morning," said Jack, as he pushed open the door of their little cottage.

The old woman's face brightened at the sight of her boys, but it grew anxious as she heard these words. "God grant the storm may keep off then a few hours longer," she said, fervently, "for it is awful to think of—awful to listen to the wild ravings of the wind, and have to lie here helpless, while poor souls are being lost for want of help. And yet, what am I saying? One would think I was more merciful than God, or that He couldn't help them. Bob, find my favorite text. I know it, lad, but I like to put my finger on it, and see it's there, ever since your father was drowned in a storm."

Bob did as his mother desired him as soon as his brother had struck a light. He knew the verse to which his mother referred, and read slowly and solemnly,—

"'Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance.'"

"Yes, the hollow of His hand, that's it," murmured the old woman. "They're in the hollow of His hand still, though they be on the raging sea, and He'll care for and guide each one of 'em, though we can't see His hand, and it seems all left to chance."

The boys were used to these little bits of talk, addressed half to them and half to herself, and went on with their work of preparing the frugal supper, only stopping now and then to listen to the wind, which sometimes threatened to overturn their little dwelling in its fury.

"I wish I could do something for that ship out there," said Bob, as he finished his supper.

"An' if it was only to save one from drowning, it 'ud do some good," said Jack.

"Well, boys, come and kneel down here, and pray for me first, and then go and see if there's anything doing, or whether she's got into the harbor," said the widow.

And as she spoke, she turned the pages of the Bible, and read the story of the Lord being in the tempest asleep, and the affright of the disciples at their danger, and then His wondrous words, "Peace, be still," which at once produced a great calm.

The boys arose from their knees, and knew, although no word had been spoken, that for them and for those on the vessel many heartfelt prayers would ascend from their mother's heart. They opened the cottage door and went out, but soon returned with the intelligence that it was hoped she would gain the harbor yet, and so, feeling very tired, they both went to bed.

CHAPTER II.

THE LITTLE WAIF.

JACK and his brother were soon fast asleep, in spite of the noise made by the wind. But the widow lay listening to its wild roar, and thinking of that night when her husband was out in just such a storm as this, that came on so suddenly that before he could reach the shore his little fishing boat was dashed on the fatal rocks, and he and three others perished in the eddying waves.

As the hours went on, the storm increased in violence, while ever and anon between the lulls of the tempest the guns of a vessel in distress could be plainly heard. At the earliest dawn, all the men in the village were down upon the beach; some had been there all night watching the ineffectual effort of the splendid vessel to gain the harbor. It was all in vain, she was drifting fast to her doom on the fatal reef of hidden rocks that made this coast so dangerous.

To describe the scene of agonizing excitement when she struck, would be impossible. All hope was at an end then, and the passengers who crowded her deck knew it. The storm, however, had begun to abate, and, as soon as it was possible, boats put off from the shore to rescue the helpless crew and passengers. But before half of them could be brought off, the vessel had begun to break up.

Our two fisher-lads were among the earliest arrivals at the exciting scene, and they had promised to run back with intelligence to their mother.

"Now, Bob, you just run and tell mother how she is," said Jack, after they had stood looking at the vessel for a minute or two; "and don't come down here again. Stop up at Sandy Cove and watch; you can slip back to mother then, and tell her how it's going on."

Bob did not much like the post assigned him, to be a lonely watcher in a sheltered nook, instead of in the midst of the excitement. But when his mother repeated the same request, he did not think of returning to his elder brother. He was a meek, gentle lad, although a fisher-boy, and quite accustomed to obey his mother, although he helped to support her, and so he quietly took up his lonely position to watch the doomed vessel.

She had struck during the time he had been running home, and when he saw the boats put off shortly afterwards, it was a sore trial to him to stay where he was, in obedience to his mother's wishes, instead of remaining on the scene of action. But he did stay, watching with eager interest the progress made by the boats, and occasionally shouting cheering words to the rowers, as though the din of wind and waves would carry them to the men.

Presently, as we have said, the vessel began to break up. One and another was washed from the crowded deck into the eddying waves, some flinging themselves in with life-preservers around them, and others lashing themselves to spars, hoping that these would keep them above water. One of these was quickly carried beyond the rocks and floated towards where Bob was standing. He did not notice it at first, but as it gradually drifted nearer, he saw that something was lashed to it. It came nearer each moment, and, as it came on, all the boy's interest centred in that one remnant of the wreck, and he prepared to plunge in and drag it to the shore. But there was no occasion for this. A wave caught it as he was dashing into the surf, and, whirling it past him, dashed it high up on the sandy beach. Bob ran to it instantly, and then saw that a child was securely lashed to it, but, to all appearance, dead as the spar itself.

To take out his knife, however, and cut the cords that bound the little creature was the work of a moment; and then taking it in his arms, with the long fair hair dripping over his shoulders, he ran with all his speed up the winding path towards home. But he halted before he had gone far. What could his mother do for the child, and she unable to turn herself in bed? And yet everybody else was down at the other part of the beach.

Suddenly he remembered Dr. Mansfield's house stood close by, and without a second thought about the matter, he ran there.

"I want the doctor!" he panted, when the startled housekeeper opened the door in answer to his imperious ring.

The woman glanced at the child and then at him. "Dr. Mansfield sees nobody, you know that," she said sternly. "You must take the child somewhere else."

But at this moment Bob felt, or fancied he felt, a faint fluttering in the little frame, while a door hastily opened on the opposite side of the hall revealed the bent figure of the doctor. Bob knew him in a moment, although he had not seen him above twice in his life, and dashing past the astonished housekeeper, he entered the room before she could prevent it.

"It ain't dead, doctor!" gasped Bob, holding out the still dripping child.

The doctor stepped back a pace or two and stared at the intruder with dilating eyes, bringing to the boy's recollection a rumor lately gone abroad that the doctor was out of his mind. "Why, you are the boy that came to my gardener yesterday with the sea-weed?" he said.

Bob nodded.

"Good. I like you, for you didn't get into a passion when the man swore so. I'll look at your baby." And he took the little creature from Bob as he spoke.

It was to all appearance dead, but the skilled hand of the physician detected a faint fluttering at the heart, and the discovery seemed to arouse him in a moment from the torpor and half insanity of his manner. Ringing the bell, he ordered blankets to be brought, and then proceeded to use other restoratives which he had close at hand.

For some time, however, it seemed that all their efforts were in vain, and nearly an hour passed before there were any signs of life, but at last there came a little faintly drawn breath, and the doctor redoubled his exertions to fan the faint spark of life into a flame again.

The effect of these exertions was scarcely less marked upon himself than upon the child, and Bob could only stare in blank amazement when he saw the change in the gloomy, misanthropic doctor. Brisk, active, energetic, decided, his bowed form stood erect, and the fire in his dark eyes flashed back a denial of anything like insanity.

And when at last, the heavy blue eyes of the little girl slowly opened, a smile broke over all the face of her deliverer. It was the first time he had been known to smile for ten years.

"Now, boy," he said, addressing Bob, "your baby will live, but you had better leave her here a bit, till she gets well."

"Yes, sir," answered the boy, pulling at his hair, but still staring in amazement at the doctor, and the wonderful transformation that had passed over him within the last hour.

"You can come and take her in a day or two, when she gets well," said the housekeeper as he was leaving, and the doctor nodded his acquiescence in his housekeeper's suggestion.

Bob ran to tell his mother of his adventure, and from her heard that most of the passengers and crew had been saved, but that the captain of the vessel had been washed overboard and drowned.

A month passed; the rescued passengers and crew had all departed from the lonely fishing village—all but the little waif, ill at Dr. Mansfield's. No one had come to claim her, and no one could tell to whom she belonged; the uncertainty which for some time hung over her, as to whether she would live or die, made this of secondary importance.

But soon after the last of the passengers had departed, an improvement took place in the child, the fever left her, and she was able to look around and notice her strange nurses. And to her, they did appear very strange, for she turned from every one but the doctor, refusing to make friends with any but him. She appeared to be about two years old, and could just lisp two words, "Milly" and "papa." By the former she meant herself, and the latter she applied to Dr. Mansfield. There was a little odd jargon of some foreign language that she babbled sometimes, but nothing of her name or parentage could be discovered from it.

CHAPTER III.

THE COTTAGE HOME.

IT was some weeks before little Milly could do more than prattle in a listless, feeble sort of way. And of course, the unwonted presence of a child there made a good deal of extra work in the house, but not nearly so much as when she became able to run about and get into mischief, for she soon showed a wonderful genius in this particular, and would not be kept from it without exhibiting a most violent temper.

The doctor laughed at these outbursts when he happened to be in a good humor himself. But the housekeeper and servants were not at all disposed to take it so complacently, and they resolved that the next time the doctor shut himself up in his room to indulge his gloomy seclusion, little Milly should be sent away.

It was not long before an opportunity presented itself. One morning the doctor failed to make his appearance as usual, and the little girl was more tiresome than ever.

"I will not put up with it any longer, that I won't!" exclaimed the angry housekeeper, when Milly broke the second cup and saucer that had been placed before her. "I don't see why we should take the child in because the sea happened to wash her up near here; this is not the parish poorhouse."

And so a servant was dispatched to the widow's cottage to bring Bob at once.

The boy thought that perhaps more sea-weed was required, and so without any delay, he hurried up to the house.

"I want you to take that child home; the doctor can't be bothered with her any longer," said the housekeeper, as soon as Bob made his appearance.

Poor Bob scratched his head in perplexity. "I'll tell mother, ma'am," he said, though what they should do with this additional burden, he was at a loss to know.

He had begun to hope that the doctor would keep her, if no one came forward to claim her, although she was always spoken of as "Bob's baby" by all who knew the circumstances of her rescue.

"You'd better take her with you," said the housekeeper. "The doctor has one of his bad attacks coming on this morning, and she's in the way here. You can carry her home, can't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I can carry her. But I was thinking what we should do with her," said Bob, still in perplexity.

"Well, if you like to keep her, I'll send her some clothes now and then. And you can come here for the broken victuals; there's a good deal sometimes, and it would help you a bit, I dare say."

"Yes, ma'am it would," said Bob.

"But, mind, I don't say you are to keep her," went on the housekeeper. "If I were your mother, I should send her to the workhouse. It would be the best place, I think, for Dr. Mansfield can't be bothered with her again, and so you must not bring her here or let him see her any more."

"I shouldn't like her to go to the workhouse," said Bob, gently stroking the fair hair of the little girl as she toddled into the room.

He held out his arms as he spoke, and the child went to him, but scowled fiercely at the housekeeper when she attempted to touch her.

"She's got a temper of her own, I can tell you," said one of the servants, as she pinned a shawl around Milly's shoulders and tied on a quaint-looking little bonnet that had been made for her by one of them. "You'd better make up your mind to send her to the workhouse at once."

"I'll tell mother what you say, ma'am," said' Bob deferentially, for he stood in awe of the grand-looking servants.

But he devoutly hoped his mother would not send her there, and resolved to work harder than ever himself in order to keep her with them.

On his way home, Jack met him, all impatience to know why he had been sent for. When he saw Milly in his arms, he burst into a loud laugh. "Halloo, Bob, have you got a place as nurse-maid up there?" he shouted.

Bob tried to laugh too, but it was almost a failure, for he was feeling very troubled about the child. "If I'm to be a nurse, I shall have to do it at home, not up there," he said.

"What do you mean? What are you going to do with that child, then?" asked Jack, more quietly.

"Take her home," said Bob.

And then he explained to his brother what Dr. Mansfield's housekeeper had said to him.

Jack gave a prolonged whistle. "I don't see how we shall manage that at all," he said.

"Well, I shall try and work harder," said Bob, "so that we may keep her."

"I'll help you in that," replied his brother. "But to have a little thing like this with nobody to look after her but us rough chaps seems queer."

They did not speak again until they reached home, when Jack, taking Milly from his brother's arms, carried her in and placed her on the bed beside his mother.

"She's to be ours now, mother. The doctor won't keep her any longer," said Jack, smoothing the child's fair hair, and looking at the lovely blue eyes, that were opened widely now in wondering surprise at the strange faces and still stranger place.

The widow looked as puzzled as Bob had done for a minute or two, but at length, to the great relief of the boys she said, "The Lord has sent her, and I doubt not but He'll provide for her. May be He has some work for her to do here, and so we'll just do the best we can for her."

It was an odd companionship—the bedridden widow and two rough lads for a little delicate girl. But Bob grew to be almost as gentle as a girl himself in attending to her wants—more gentle and yielding than was altogether good for the young lady, who soon ruled with despotic sway all the little household, and resented the smallest resistance to her wishes.

As the weeks and months went on, however, the widow noticed, with a growing anxiety, that Milly's uncontrolled temper was fast gaining the mastery of her. And at length, a simple incident convinced her that she must set about the work of correcting and subduing it without delay.

Bob frequently took the child down to the shore when he could spare the time, and helped her to gather shells and bits of rubbish cast up by the sea, but he had to keep a close watch over her lest she should get into danger, an interference Milly often resented. But one day her rescue seemed to make her more angry than ever; she kicked and struggled to get free from the protecting arms, and at last made a desperate plunge at Bob's face with the sharp edge of an oyster-shell that she happened to have in her hand. The blow might not have been so severe, but the boy happened to bend his head forward at the moment, and the shell entered his cheek, inflicting quite a deep wound.

Jack saw his brother's face covered with blood, and took the child from his arms, who ceased her kicking and struggling the moment she saw the mischief she had done.

"Run home as fast as you can, Bob, and get mother to tie it up," said Jack, seating Milly on the ground.

"Let me go, let me go!" cried Milly, running after Bob. "Me hurt poor Bob, let me kiss him and make him well."

And she escaped from Jack's detaining hold, and ran after his brother. Bob stopped and lifted her up in his arms, but the sight of the blood seemed to horrify her, and she burst into tears.

"Poor Bob! Poor Bob!" she said caressingly.

And, at the sight of her distress, the big, rough boy forgot the pain that had been inflicted by that little fat chubby hand, and only thought of soothing her.

"Don't be frightened, mother, it ain't much more than a scratch," said Bob lightly, as he entered the cottage, and saw his mother start forward in alarm.

"How did it happen? What have you done?" asked the widow, in a tone of alarm.

"Milly did it; Milly hurt Bob," said the little girl, running forward to the bed.

"Did she?" asked the widow.

The boy nodded. "I was bringing her away from the rocks, and she did not want to come," he said; "and she had an oyster-shell in her hand."

"And struck you with it? O, naughty girl, naughty Milly, to get angry and hurt poor Bob!" said the widow, speaking severely.

"Milly kiss it and make it well," said the child, half penitently, half defiantly.

Her kisses had been received as a recompense for all sorts of misdemeanors before, and she thought they would be quite enough now, and was evidently surprised when the widow said,—

"No; Milly's kisses won't make it well. Poor Bob is hurt, and Milly hurt him."

But Milly seemed determined to try the efficacy of kissing, and Bob stooped to let her try.

"Won't it go away?" she said, when she found the blood did not disappear.

"No, not for kissing," said Bob. "Milly hurt it, but Milly can't cure it."

The words seemed to make a deep impression upon the child, and she walked sadly towards the bed. "Milly naughty, and hurt Bob," she said, and, hiding her head in the bedclothes, she burst into tears.

The widow laid her hand on the fair, shining hair, and said gently, "Yes, Milly is naughty; she has a naughty, passionate temper, and that has made her hurt Bob."

"Take Milly's naughty temper away, please," said the little girl, lifting her tear-stained face from the coverlet.

The widow shook her head. "I can't do that for Milly," she said, "but Jesus can, and will, if she asks Him to do it for her."

It was not the first time the child had heard that name, but it was the first time He had ever been spoken of as being her Friend—willing to do anything for her. And her blue eyes opened more widely still, as the widow went on to tell of the love and gentleness of this Friend, and how he would listen to the prayers of even little children, and grant their requests.

Milly had already learned to kneel down and put her hands together in prayer, and she did so now, repeating the simple words she had been taught by the widow.

When she had done, Bob came and lifted her on the bed beside his mother.

"Now, Milly, shall I teach you something the Lord Jesus said about being meek and gentle, instead of angry and passionate?" asked the widow, drawing the little face down to hers, and kissing the fair, rounded cheek.

"Please," said the child. "He did hear me, didn't He; and He won't let me get angry and hurt Bob again, will He?" she asked anxiously.

"Milly must try to be gentle, as well as pray to be gentle," said the widow. "Jesus said, 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.' Now, Milly, say that again, because I want you to learn it, and say it every night."

The child repeated the words several times, and, having a retentive memory, she soon knew them by heart.

From this time, it became noticeable that, young as she was, she did try to curb her passionate temper. That it was not easy to do this could be seen, but she nevertheless persevered in her efforts, and the outbursts became more rare and less violent during several years which glided by, with no event to mark them, beyond the receiving of one or two parcels of clothes for the lone little girl from Dr. Mansfield's housekeeper.

CHAPTER IV.

THE WIDOW'S DEATH.

"BLESSED are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Little Milly was kneeling at the widow's bedside repeating this verse, as she did every night.

"Why do I say that so often?" she asked, as she arose from her knees and Bob lifted her into bed.

"Because I think Milly needs it," said the widow.

"But I don't go into tempers now," said the child. "I'm trying to be meek and lowly, like Jesus, that I may go and see my papa."

It was a long time since Milly had mentioned this name, and all thought it had faded from her memory.

It brought the tears to the widow's eyes as she heard it.

"What makes you cry?" asked Milly. "You said one day I should see papa. Won't Jesus take me to see him soon?"

"Perhaps He will, dear," replied the widow, kissing the little face.

And she sighed as she looked at the fragile little figure, and thought how very likely it was that she should be called upon to part with this tender blossom that had become so very dear to her, and the brightness and sunshine of their home. And try as she would, she could not keep back her tears at the thought of parting with her, even though it was to become like the angels she was so fond of talking about.

It was a favorite subject with Milly to say she would be an angel and take care of somebody. Sometimes it was Bob, or Jack, and sometimes the widow herself. And these talks of the child always made her think she would be early taken to another world.

But the widow never glanced at the possibility of its being her own death that would thus separate them. She had been unable to walk for several years, but her general health was good, and she looked forward to spending some years yet on the low truckle bed, and do what she could for the comfort of her two boys.

She was saying this to a neighbor one day—it was not often they had a visit from any one, for the nearest cottage was some distance from their own, and so it was a treat for the widow to have some one to talk to. The woman looked at her keenly as she spoke, and asked if she felt quite well.

"I have been until now, but I can't say that I feel too well to-day, though it's nothing to complain of, only a little pain here," and she laid her hand upon her heart.

"You'd better let one of the boys get you some medicine, if it don't get better," said her friend.

The widow smiled. She had little faith in medicine, and did not believe it would do her any good now.

"I'll get some herb-tea made to-morrow," she said, and resolved to pay no more heed to the troublesome pain in her side.

But something in her appearance made her friend far less easy about the matter. And as she was leaving, she contrived to draw Jack on one side and tell him her fears concerning his mother.

The boy started, and looked towards the bed through the open doorway. "Do you think she's ill?" he said anxiously.

"Hush! Don't let her hear what we are talking about. Yes, I am afraid she is ill, or going to be ill. If she does not seem better to-morrow, if she still has the pain in her side, send Bob down for me, and I'll come up and persuade her to have the doctor. Mind you send early," she added, as she turned up the little path leading from the sea-shore to the village.

Jack felt anxious and alarmed as the woman left him. But when he went back to the cottage and saw his mother's placid face, looking perhaps a trifle paler, but otherwise just the same as usual, his fears subsided, and he felt sure it was all a mistake—his mother was not going to be ill.

The boy was right too. The widow was not going to be ill, she was going to that land where there is neither sickness nor sorrow. She had even reached the borders of it, although she knew it not.

She was unusually cheerful that night, the pain in her side was better, she said, and she felt almost well enough to get up.

As a great treat, Milly was to sit up to supper that night, and, being very wakeful, she remained up until the usual chapter was read and prayer had been offered up by the widow.

Earnestly and affectionately did she commend each to the care of their Heavenly Father, making special mention of little Milly, that, if spared, she might be a blessing and a help to many. And then, with an affectionate farewell, she bade each go to bed.

All thought of what he had heard concerning his mother's illness had passed from Jack's mind, and his last thought before going to sleep was of the pleasant, happy evening they had spent, and his dreams were of a happy home-circle, in which his father's place was not empty.

He was aroused the next morning by Milly laying her little hand on his face. The circumstance did not alarm him, for the child usually awoke early, and often came to call them.

But when she said, "Wake up, Jack, and light the fire, mother's so cold," an instant fear seized the boy's heart.

Springing out of bed, he ran into the adjoining room, and one glance at the little bed confirmed his worst fears. He did not scream or cry out, but a groan of anguish burst from his heart; and Bob, whom Milly had likewise awakened, came hurrying in after him.

"What is it? Is mother ill?" he asked, as he saw his brother throw the sheet over her face.

Jack shook his head. "Make haste and get your things on, and run down for Mrs. Ship," he said.

Bob looked from his brother to the bed. "Is it too late to fetch the doctor?" he asked.

Jack nodded. "Don't let Milly come in here," he said, as the little girl was about to clamber up on the bed again.

Bob took her in his arms and went back to their little sleeping-room. But then all his firmness gave way, and throwing himself on the bed, he burst into an irrepressible wail of anguish.

"What's a-matter, Bob? Ain't mother well? She wants her breakfast, I think," said Milly.

Bob tried to choke back his tears for the sake of the child. "Mother won't want any more breakfasts, Milly," he said; "she's gone to heaven—gone to see Jesus!"

The little girl sat down, her hands clasped in her lap. "She's gone to be an angel, then, instead of me?" she said.

"No, not instead of you, Milly. You've been an angel to us here, I'm sure, and so you will be!" But there he stopped.

What would become of the child now his mother had gone? She was far too young to be left in the cottage alone while they were away at work, even if they could have attended to her wants while they were at home.

But he could not stay to think of this now; he had to hurry away to bring their neighbor from the village. And while he was gone, Jack dressed Milly, and did what he could to put the house in order.

A doctor came with the woman and Bob, but it was useless to try to restore animation. She must have been dead some hours, he said; he thought it probable that she had passed away in her sleep, so calm and peaceful did she look in her death-slumber.

What was to become of Milly, was of course the first question that presented itself to the mind of Mrs. Ship. She offered the boys a home with her, but she could not take Milly, she said. And so it was resolved that Bob should take her up to Dr. Mansfield's to ask the advice of the housekeeper on the subject.

Mrs. Ship thought it would be best to do this without delay, and urged Bob to do it at once. But the boy had a sad foreboding that poor Milly would be sent to the workhouse, and wanted to postpone it until after the funeral.

"You won't forget what mother told you about being meek and gentle, and loving Jesus?" said Bob, as he slowly led the little girl towards the doctor's house.

"No, I won't forget," said Milly. "But where are we going to, Bob? Don't you hear me?"

Bob sighed. He almost wished she was lying beside his mother. He loved the little fair-haired girl, that had taught them so many lessons of self-control, and he could not bear the thought of her being thrust out into the rude rough world of the workhouse.

"I don't know where you'll go yet, Milly," he said, speaking as calmly and steadily as he could; "but you will try to be a good girl—one of God's messengers wherever you go—won't you?"

The child nodded, and went on with her artless prattle of how she was going to take care of him when she was a woman, until they reached the doctor's house, and Bob had rung the bell, which he did with a trembling hand, greatly fearing that the housekeeper would be angry with him for bringing Milly against her express command.

CHAPTER V.

GOD'S MESSENGER.

THE bell was not answered the first time Bob rung it, and his fears so far got the better of him that before he ventured to pull it again, he took Milly to a little distance out of sight, and telling her to wait there, went back more boldly, and his summons being answered this time, he asked to see Dr. Mansfield's housekeeper.

She was not at home, the other servant said.

But at the same moment, Dr. Mansfield came down stairs and saw Bob, whom he had designated "the quiet boy." The doctor was in one of his best moods to-day, and asked him if he had come about getting some more sea-weed.

"No, sir; it's about poor little Milly, the baby you saved, sir," said Bob, unable to keep back his tears.

"The baby I saved!" repeated the doctor, passing his hand across his forehead. "Did I ever save anybody?" he asked in a wild, eager tone.

"Yes, sir, you saved Milly's life; but mother's dead now, sir, and Jack don't know what we'd best do about her."

"About this baby?"

"She ain't a baby now," hastily interrupted Bob. "Mother said a short time ago she thought she must be going on six years. It's four years ago I picked her up and brought her here."

"Ah, yes, I remember; and now you're going to bring her here again; that's right, that's right. I'd like to see this baby; bring her now." And the doctor made an impatient gesture for Bob to go at once.

Bob would much rather have seen the housekeeper than Dr. Mansfield, for it was generally believed in the village that he was insane, and he felt somewhat nervous at the thought of leaving Milly in that large rambling old house with a madman. But the doctor had spoken so imperatively, that he knew not how to disobey him, for he feared that if he did so, the doctor would himself come and carry her off.

This fear at last prevailed over every other feeling. But inwardly hoping that the housekeeper might return before he got back to the house, he went to Milly, telling her she was going to see the lady that had sent her all her new frocks.

To his very great disappointment, almost consternation, he heard that the housekeeper had not come back.

But Dr. Mansfield, who had been waiting his return, stepped out of an adjoining room and looked at Milly. Long and earnestly did he gaze into her upturned face, and Milly as steadfastly regarded him.

"Little girl, will you come to me?" he said at length, in a voice faltering with emotion.

For answer, she held out her arms, and put up her lips to be kissed.

The doctor caught her, murmuring, "So like, so like that other!"

He took no further notice of Bob, but carried the little girl back with him into the room.

And when the housekeeper returned, an hour or two afterwards, she found, to her great annoyance, that Milly was making herself quite at home among the quaint odd playthings the doctor had given her.

Her first resolution was that Milly should not stay there long, but in this she had reckoned without her host. Dr. Mansfield would not hear of the child being sent away, and his attachment to her seemed to grow every day. She was his constant companion; and although he often appeared to be silently looking at her in moody indifference, her very presence seemed to afford him so much relief from his own more gloomy thoughts, that he could not bear to have her out of his sight very long.

"Wait a bit, things won't last like this always," said the housekeeper. "Master will be glad to get rid of the little plague by and by."

And the time when this was expected came very soon. Dr. Mansfield shut himself up in his room, and forbade any one to disturb him.

Milly's first inquiry, on coming down stairs in the morning and seeing his place empty, was for him. When told he was in his room, though bidden to remain, she was turning to go to him, but was caught, and with sundry slaps laid upon her arms and shoulders, brought back to her breakfast.

Whether it was that she was unused to this mode of punishment, and felt the indignity of it, or whether the housekeeper's repeated threats that she could never see the doctor any more, appealed to her fear, and by this to her passion, certain it is that she burst into a such a fury of anger, that her persecutor set her free in alarm, and Milly ran shrieking up to the doctor's door, which was at once opened to her, and she ran sobbing into his arms.

"Milly, Milly, what is the matter?" he asked, kissing and trying to comfort her.

But the child cried on in spite of all he could do or say to allay her grief, while the housekeeper down stairs was thinking that nothing better could have happened to forward her plans for getting her out of the house.

It seemed that the doctor's plan of locking himself up from everybody would have to be postponed for that day at least, for he came down not long after with Milly in his arms. She had sobbed herself to sleep, and her little troubled face gave the doctor more anxiety just now than his own life-long griefs.

"What is it makes you so unhappy?" he said when she awoke, and he saw the same troubled look settle on her face more deeply than ever.

She looked up at him.

"Don't you know?" she said, her lips quivering.

He shook his head.

"I've been a naughty girl, very naughty; I got angry."

"Is that all? I thought you had been hurt," said the doctor, in some surprise.

She looked down at her arms. "It didn't hurt much," she said, "but it made me feel so bad." And the little fist clenched again as she spoke.

At this moment the housekeeper entered the room for something, and Dr. Mansfield was about to ask her what she had done to the child.

But before he could speak, Milly slipped off his knee and hurried around to where the housekeeper stood. The tears were in her eyes, and her lips quivered as she said, "Please forgive me for going into a passion, will you? I'm very, very sorry, and, and—" But here her voice broke down, and bursting into tears, she ran back to the doctor's arms.

He was scarcely less moved than the child herself. "What made you do that, Milly?" he said, when she had somewhat recovered herself. "Why, I declare you are almost as passionate as—as I am."

The child looked up at him with a curious, inquiring gaze. "Do you get angry?" she said, in a tone of wonder.

He turned his head away. "Don't, don't ask me, child," he said impatiently. "I can't help it—I can't help it."

"No, I know; it's Jesus that helps us; ain't it?" said the little girl simply. "And I've been forgetting all about Him since I've been here. Will you teach me again? 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.' I want to be meek and gentle, like Jesus, but it is so hard, and I do forget so very often."

The doctor shook his head, simply because he did not know what to say, but listened with interest to the child's talk.

"I've been very naughty to-day, haven't I?" she said, the tears welling up again to her eyes. "Do you think I shall ever be gentle and kind?"

Her listener nodded his head, seeing she expected an answer.

"Couldn't you ask Jesus to help me now?" she said in a minute or two. "Or else, perhaps, if you stay up stairs to-morrow morning, I shall scream again."

And as she spoke, she slipped from his arms, and knelt down in front of a chair close by. She evidently expected him to follow her example, and, scarce knowing what he did, he knelt beside her.

She waited some minutes, expecting to hear him pray for her, as the widow had done many times; but no sound, save a faint sob, broke the silence of the room. And so, putting her hands together, and raising her eyes, she slowly and reverently repeated her simple morning prayer, ending with "Our Father," and then the text, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

She knelt in front of a chair, and the doctor knelt

beside her.

CHAPTER VI.

REST FOR THE WEARY.

WHEN Milly paused, a sob broke from the doctor's lips, and the little girl felt somewhat awed as she arose from her knees and saw her companion still kneeling.

She knew not what a tide of recollections the unaccustomed posture and her simple words had awakened; that a tempest between principle and passion was raging in the doctor's heart; that once more he, who had so long been the slave of Satan and his own evil passions, was visited by the angel of mercy, who would fain lead him to look away from himself up to a higher power for strength to conquer.

Nearly an hour passed before he arose from his knees, and Milly had begun to get frightened, and was about to leave the room. This action of hers, however, aroused him.

"Don't go away," he said in a hoarse whisper. "You won't be afraid of me, will you?"

She shook her head.

"They used to be afraid of me—everybody," he said dreamily, as he took her on his knee again. "Who told you it was wrong to get angry?" he asked in a minute or two.

"It says so in the Bible," answered Milly. "Jesus never got angry; and I want to be like Jesus."

"I wish I had tried to conquer my temper when I was as young as you," he said. "If I had thought of what my mother had taught me—for she made me learn, 'Blessed are the meek,'—if I had thought of this, and asked God to make me meek and gentle, instead of being proud and passionate, I should have been a happy man now instead of a miserable one.

"Everybody thinks I am rich, but, Milly, I had better be as poor as the boy who brought you here—Bob, the fisher-boy; I know he is gentle, kind and obedient. I know he enjoys many things; while I—I never enjoy anything. It's nothing but misery—misery—misery with me!" And he uttered the last words in a sort of wail, so that Milly felt distressed and puzzled too.

But remembering when anything happened to the widow, she always liked to hear her read some verses against which she had placed a mark in her Testament, she ran from the room to get it. Bob had only brought it to her the day before, and she had spelled over the words she was now about to read as soon as it came, for they brought to her mind the kind friend who had taught her all she knew. A well-worn, well-thumbed book it was, for it had been almost her only spelling book, and the leaf on which were the marked verses was worn thin by the travelling of the little finger over them.

"I'm going to read something to you," said Milly, as she came back into the room again with the book in her hand.

She perched herself on his knee and turned to the place. It opened almost of itself at the right chapter, and Milly knew each word of her favorite verse; but she placed her finger under each as she read:

"'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'"

Eagerly did Dr. Mansfield's eyes follow the little finger, while his ears drank in the loving, soothing words. "I'm weary, weary," he sighed. "O that I could find this rest!"

"Jesus will give it to you if you ask Him," said Milly, looking up from her book. "I know a place where it tells about that," she said.

And she turned the leaves over until she found and read some more marked verses—

"'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'"

Deeply did Dr. Mansfield ponder over these words. Could he ask for this rest that was offered? Conscience whispered of a dark deed in the past. Could he hope for this to be forgiven?

When Milly went to bed, he asked her to lend him her book. And long after every one else was asleep, did he sit reading over again the verses she had read. Until at last, remembering the child's words and action of the morning, he again knelt down, and, almost for the first time in his life, prayed—prayed for pardon, and for strength to overcome the remembrance of what had driven him almost to the verge of insanity.

The following morning he felt as little disposed to leave his room as he had done on the previous day. The depression of mind and the power of his old habit of shutting himself up and giving vent to his temper, was exercising its influence over him; stronger than ever, as it seemed to him. And he was about to repeat the order of the previous morning, when there arose up before him the vision of a little girl striving to overcome her anger, and meekly asking forgiveness.

This recalled the hopes that had been raised the previous day; and why should he disdain to learn of this child? Why not copy her example? Yes, he would; he would at least try, as she was doing, to overcome some things, even if he could do no more.

And having made this resolution, he hastened to the breakfast room, that he might have the help which her presence always gave him. She met him with a beaming smile. He was later than usual, and it was evident she had been anxiously watching for him.

"I didn't scream this morning," she whispered, as she took his hand; "I did ask Jesus to make me gentle."

It brought to him her action of the previous day, and why should he be above copying her in this particular? Why should he be too proud to seek strength from the same source this little child obtained hers? Thus, unconsciously, Dr. Mansfield was gaining the greatest victory over himself in thus learning of a little child.

He went up stairs after breakfast, and knelt down, but, scarce knowing what to say, he repeated what he could remember of Milly's prayer, and that brought words to his lips for his own most pressing needs. The struggle he felt must be a hard one, but already there had dawned upon his mind a ray of hope that he, even he, might not only be pardoned, but also delivered from the baneful influence of his evil, vicious temper. And the thought that he might yet have peace in his conscience, and a cheerful and happy life, so filled him with joy and rapture, that he felt it would be his happiness—nay, his highest pleasure—to do everything he could to show his gratitude to his God, if such a change could ever be wrought in his dark and wearied spirit.

These thoughts and feelings did not come all at once. They were of gradual growth; but day by day, week by week, he became less morose and gloomy, and after a short time, the kind words of which Milly alone had been the first recipient, came to be extended to others. And the news soon spread in the village that the doctor was certainly not out of his mind, after all that had been said about him.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS.

ABOUT this time a fever broke out in the neighborhood, and one of the families first attacked was Mrs. Ship's, where Milly's friends, Jack and Bob, still lived.

News of this was brought in by one of the servants, when Milly was in the kitchen one morning.

"Two of the children are very bad indeed," said the girl. "And the baker says they're so poor now, they can hardly get a living, so what they'll do with sickness in the house, I don't know."

"Poor things! It's a pity they can't get somebody to help them a bit," said the housekeeper. But she has no thought of giving them any help herself, although she might have done it, had she felt so disposed.

Milly stood at the table, eagerly listening to all that was said.

"Will Bob and Jack have the fever and be ill, do you think?" she asked, after a minute's pause.

"Very likely, child; there's no telling who will have it and who won't, and as it's in the house where they live, they'll be very likely to take it."

"And there 'll be nobody to help them, now their mother is dead," said Milly, speaking softly to herself.

She did not say any more, but walked slowly and thoughtfully up stairs and took out a book to spell over her lessons, as she had been accustomed to do. But somehow the sight of the old worn spelling book that Bob had bought as a present for her, brought back the old scenes so vividly to her mind that, at the recurrence of the thought that these two friends might be ill, with no one to take care of them, she burst into tears.

She was still crying when Dr. Mansfield came in from the garden. "What is the matter, Milly? What has happened, my darling?" he asked, lifting her upon his knee as he sat down.

For a minute or two Milly could only sob. But at length she said, "I think I shall have to go away from you soon."

"Go away from me?" repeated the doctor, clasping her in his arms as he spoke. "What do you mean, Milly?"

"I don't know, quite; but Bob told me I must be an angel, and help everybody, and I think he will want me to go and help him now."

"Help who? Bob, the fisher-boy?"

Milly nodded. "He'll want me soon, I think," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes and trying to look very brave.

"What for?" asked the doctor. "What can a little girl like you do for him?"

"I don't know. I'm going to try and do everything; that is, take care of him while he's ill. That would be helping him, wouldn't it?" she added.

"Yes, if you could do it. But is he ill?" asked the doctor, smiling.

"Not yet; but he's going to be. He'll have the fever, Mary says."

"O! It's what Mary says, is it?" said the doctor, kissing her. "Well, then, I don't think you need trouble your little head much about it. Tell me what you have been learning this morning," he added, by way of turning her thoughts to another subject.

But Milly was not to be put off so easily. "I can't learn my lesson this morning," she said. "I must think about Bob and Jack, and how I can help them."

"But it will be time enough to think about that when they are ill," said the doctor, again smiling.

"But Mrs. Ship's two little girls are ill now, and Mary said she wanted some one to help her. Do you think I could help a little bit?"

"What do you think you could do?" asked the doctor in an amused tone. He was unusually cheerful this morning, and loved to hear Milly talk.

"I think I could light the fire—I've seen Bob do it a good many times—and I could go after water. Mother said that I helped her when I brought the water for her. I learned to wash cups and saucers before I came here, and I could do that."

"But I'm afraid this wouldn't help these poor people much," said the doctor, speaking more seriously. "If Mary said they wanted help, she meant help of a different sort from what a little girl can give."

Milly looked disappointed. "I wish I wasn't a little girl, then," she said. "Little girls don't seem to be any good in the world, if they can't help when people are ill."

The doctor drew her closer to him. "Don't say that, my darling. Little girls do not know how much good they may do in the world."

"What good," asked Milly, curiously, "if they can't help people when they are ill?"

"What makes you so anxious about this?" asked the doctor.

"I want to help Bob and Jack, and then—then, you know, that would be like Jesus—who went about helping everybody He could."

"Like Jesus?" repeated the doctor, musingly. "I dare not hope ever to be like Him; but if I could help these poor people a bit, would it not please Him? And if I could do that, it would be worth something—worth living for."

This was said more to himself than to Milly; and as he spoke he put her off his knee, and turned to a medicine-chest that stood in the room, and began looking over its contents.

"I think I will go down and see these children myself," he said, as he placed two or three bottles in his pocket. "Perhaps I may be able to save the boys from having the fever at all," he added as he left the room.

Milly ran after him before he reached the street-door. "Let me go with you," she said. "Do let me go and see Bob. I haven't seen him for a long time."

But the doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid you would catch this fever, and be ill too," he said.

But Milly pleaded so hard to be allowed to accompany him part of the way, that the doctor yielded the point at last. And it was well he did, or otherwise he might not have gained so ready an admission into the cottage.

Mrs. Ship was at the window, and saw the two coming across the green together, Milly holding the doctor's hand, and skipping and laughing as she trotted at his side.

"Well, to be sure, there must be a change in that Dr. Mansfield, for a child to be no more afraid of him than that little Milly is," she said to Bob, who happened to enter the room at that moment to inquire after the children who were ill.

"I've heard before that the doctor is almost cured of his madness, somehow," said Bob.

"Well, cured or not, I shouldn't care to see him come into my house if I hadn't seen him with that child. I wonder where they are going," she added the next minute, as she saw the doctor stoop and kiss the little girl. "He's going to leave her to play on the green, I do believe, while he goes on by himself."

The doctor had quickened his pace now, and was rapidly approaching the cottage.

"I do believe he's coming here," said Mrs. Ship. "Bob, go and see what he wants, and tell him we've got the fever, so that he may not come inside the door. I dare say he's coming to see you about something."

Bob went outside to meet the doctor, but returned in a minute or two. "He's come to see the children, Mrs. Ship," he said hurriedly, scarce able to get the words out for astonishment.

Poor Mrs. Ship scarcely knew whether she stood on her head or on her feet, as the tall form of the doctor appeared in the doorway.

She curtsied and stammered out something about the "poor place."

But the doctor told her, shortly, he had not come to see the place, but the children, and almost before she was aware of it, Mrs. Ship had asked him to walk into the adjoining room, where the children were lying.

Sharp and gruff as his manner had been towards the mother, nothing could exceed the gentleness with which he now spoke to the children. They were moaning restlessly in a half delirious state, and did not recognize him, or they might have taken fright at seeing the "mad doctor" so near them.

After leaving some general directions for their treatment with the medicine he had brought in his pocket, he told Mrs. Ship to send one of the boys to his house for some arrow-root and barley-water, which he would have prepared for them, and then, before a word of thanks could be uttered, he was gone.

This was his first errand of mercy, but it was not the last. The day following, when he called at the cottage, he ventured to ask in a shy manner, as though he were half ashamed of the kindness he was showing, whether the fever was spreading in the village, and whether there were any other families that needed help and medical assistance.

"O, yes, indeed it is, doctor," said Mrs. Ship, sadly; "and what 'll become of some of the poor things I don't know, for the fishing has been so bad this year that we don't know how to make ends meet as it is."

In the selfish, secluded life the doctor had led, he had heard nothing of this, although living in the midst of the general distress. But it accounted in some measure for the great prevalence of the fever, and he determined to do what he could to help the poor people, not only with medical advice, but what was equally necessary, the means of obtaining suitable nourishing food.

For several months the doctor had no time to indulge his gloomy melancholy. His visits, which were at first received shyly and somewhat suspiciously by the villagers, soon came to be hailed with pleasure, in spite of the sad countenance he always carried with him; for sad and unhappy he still was, as could be plainly seen, although the worst features of his melancholy had been overcome.

The fever passed away at length, and with it the doctor's occupation to a great extent. But from this time, if any of the villagers were ill, or in trouble, Dr. Mansfield was the first applied to in the difficulty, and they always found in him a ready helper and consoler.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

MILLY had been at Dr. Mansfield's about two years, and every body began to look upon her as his daughter now. The housekeeper had long given up all hope and even desire to get rid of her, so wonderfully had the house been brightened by her presence, that the extra trouble it entailed was no longer thought of. She did not go to school, for there were no schools in this remote fishing village, and to obviate the necessity of her leaving him for this purpose, the doctor taught her himself.

One day the doctor returned from paying several visits to his poor patients in the village, more than usually depressed.

That recalled to Milly's memory what she had heard, and what she herself faintly remembered, of his former gloomy fits, and she hastened to bring out her lessons at once, to divert his mind from whatever troubled him.

"No, we won't have the books this afternoon," said the doctor, when he saw them. "I want to talk to you, Milly. You are only a little girl, I know, but you are a sensible one, and I have learned a great many things of you."

He kissed her as he spoke, and she opened her large blue eyes to wonder what it was she could have taught such a clever man as Dr. Mansfield.

"Would you like me to tell you something of myself?" he continued. "Something of when I was young?"

"O, yes, that I should!" answered Milly joyously. And noticing the doctor's saddened look, she added, "But not if—if it makes you feel sorry."

"I think, perhaps, it will do me good," he said, trying to smile. "I will begin at the beginning. I was an only child, Milly, and a spoiled one, I think. I was always passionate, and no one ever dared to cross my will, until my cousin Edgar came to live with us. My mother was dead then, and I soon began to fancy that my father loved this orphan cousin better than myself, and, yielding to this feeling, I grew to hate Edgar—to hate him, until at last, when we had both grown up, I one day struck him down, saying I wished he might die at my feet.

"Milly, it was the last time I saw my cousin. For a long time I thought he was dead, and I lived in France until my father died, when I ventured to return, for I was his heir and many things needed to be looked after, and then I heard that my cousin had gone to India, and married out there."

"Didn't you feel very glad then?" asked Milly.

"I should, if I had felt quite sure about it; but I cannot feel sure, and then the thought comes,—If he died of that blow I gave him! O Milly, you cannot think the misery this has caused me."

The little girl sat and looked pityingly up at him. "Couldn't you write a letter to India—a very nice kind letter, telling your cousin how sorry you feel? Who told you he'd gone to India?" she asked.

That he could not remember; but he had all the particulars down in writing, with the address of the person he hoped was his cousin, and he seemed to be pondering over what Milly had said.

He had once or twice thought of writing and ascertaining for himself whether his cousin still lived. But he had shrunk from destroying the slender thread of hope that it might be him, by hearing that it was not. But until lately there had also been another feeling at work deterring him from making any inquiries, and that was his pride.

After their quarrel—if he survived it—his cousin had gone away, cutting himself off entirely from all his former friends and acquaintances, and not allowing one to know whither he had gone. Now for Dr. Mansfield, after all that had occurred, to seek him, he felt would be impossible. And yet now that Milly suggested it, he did not put away the suggestion as he had formerly done. Nay, more; he sat and pondered over it, and at last took out the paper containing the name and address of the passenger who had met with Edgar, and the place he had named as his residence.

"You are going to write that letter to India?" said Milly, seeing the yellow discolored paper lying before him.

"I don't know, Milly. My cousin was never gentle nor kind towards me," and his brow grew dark again as he thought of the past.

She crept into his arms and wound her arm about his neck. "Wouldn't it be like Jesus, if you were kind to him?" she whispered.

"What? I don't understand," he said, looking down into the clear blue eyes.

"Why, Jesus came to us when—when—when I don't think the people cared much about Him; but He was kind and gentle just the same."

"I see what you mean, Milly. You think I should write to my cousin, whatever he may be, however he may act. But do you know it is not easy—is not pleasant to do this, especially when you do not know how it will be received?"

Milly nodded. "But Jesus did it for us," she said; "He came when the people were wicked and cruel to Him, and we ought to be like Him—meek and lowly in heart."

Milly had put it before him now in the most convincing manner. He had been striving for some time to follow the example of the Saviour; but he had failed to see before that, this meekness and lowliness—this lowering of his pride—this voluntarily humbling of himself—was included in the service he was seeking to render. But seeing it, he would not now shrink from it, hard as it was.

The next day he wrote to his cousin—wrote as Milly had suggested—a kind, loving epistle, in which the past was referred to with humility and contrition, and a hope expressed that the writer might be forgiven for what he had done in a moment of passion.

There was but a slender chance of its ever reaching the hand for which it was intended, and Dr. Mansfield said this to himself again and again. So many things might have happened during all these years to take his cousin away from the spot where he had first settled, even if he were still alive. And yet the doctor could not help indulging a slight hope that his letter would be responded to. And from that time it seemed as if a weight was lifted from his mind, and a cloud from his brow—a weight that at one time he had thought he must always carry with him as long as he lived.

CHAPTER IX.

MAJOR FERRERS.

THE arrival of the European mail is always a welcome event at an East India station. Officers and soldiers look out as eagerly for letters from home as their wives do, and are as bitterly disappointed if they are overlooked in the general distribution, although they may not care to show it as much.

It was now just expected at Delhi, and Major Ferrers, with his wife, was eagerly looking through the half-closed lattices of the bungalow to watch for the well-known signal of its arrival.

"There, it's no use looking any longer," said the lady at length, in a fretful, petulant tone, throwing herself on a lounge. "It won't come any the sooner for our looking, and I dare say when it does come, there will be nothing for us."

"I hope there will. I am expecting a letter from the agent I have set to work in London."

"O don't, Frederick," interrupted the lady, "don't raise anticipations which are sure to be disappointed. I have given up all hope of any news about that."

The gentleman seated himself by his wife, and took her hand. "My dear Maria, I would not have told you this, but that I have a strong impression we shall soon hear some tidings of our lost darling," he said tenderly.

The lady looked up quickly. "You have hopes of hearing of her at last?" she said. "O my darling child, my darling little Milly, shall I ever see you again!" And as she spoke, she burst into a flood of tears.

Her husband did what he could to pacify her, but it was some time before she grew calm. "I must leave you now, dear," he said at length, pulling out his watch, "but I shall not be gone long."

His wife knew he was going to inquire about the mail, and she lay back upon the cushions to await, with what patience she could muster, his return with the letters.

Mrs. Ferrers was not very amiable at any time, and the climate of India is not calculated to improve an irritable temper, so that the woman-servant in immediate attendance upon the lady had her patience sorely tried that afternoon in her endeavors to satisfy all her whims. But the simmering heat continued, in spite of all the lady's fretfulness concerning it, a fretfulness that was increased just now by the thought that but for this unhealthy climate, she would not have been called upon to part with her only child, but she might now have had her with her, to pet and to spoil. Mrs. Ferrers did not say "spoil," but that is what it would have been had the child been left to her care.

Major Ferrers was gone some time, and when he came back, disappointment was plainly written on his face.

"Hasn't the mail come in?" asked the lady, rising from her recumbent posture.

"Yes, it has come in," answered her husband.

"And are there no letters for us?" said the lady, in a shrinking whisper.

"Yes, there is one, but not the one I expected." And as he spoke, he took the letter from his pocket, and threw himself into a chair.

"Who is this from?" asked the lady, taking up the letter, and looking at the address on the outside.

It was in a strange handwriting, and she felt curious as to its contents. "Who can this be from?" she repeated.

"I don't know, and don't care, much," returned her husband, testily. "I felt so sure of hearing from one of the passengers that sailed in the vessel with our darling, and, as that has not come, I don't care for anything else."

He took the letter from his wife's hand, however, as he spoke, and turned it over leisurely. "I must have seen this handwriting before, somewhere," he said; "it seems strangely familiar to me." And with a little more interest, he proceeded to break the seal.

"Who is it from?" asked the lady impatiently, when he was about half through the letter.

"Well, this is strange!" remarked the major, without noticing his wife's question. "I never expected to hear from him again."

"Who is your correspondent?" asked the lady again.

"A cousin, my dear," replied her husband, going on with his perusal of the letter.

When he had finished, he laid it upon the table near his wife's elbow. "You will not understand it, my dear, without some explanation," he said, "for you have never heard me speak of Mr. Mansfield."

"Mr. Mansfield!" repeated the lady. "Was not that the name of your uncle—the one you lived with when a boy?"

"Yes, my dear, and this letter is from his only son."

"I did not know he had a son," said the lady.

"Perhaps not," remarked her husband meditatively.

He was thinking of the last time he had seen his cousin—of that terrible parting, when he had provoked the hot temper of Frank Mansfield beyond endurance, and had by him been struck to the earth. He knew he had not been blameless in that quarrel himself, although he had often tried to believe that he was. He might have done so still; but the humble, penitent tone of his cousin's letter touched him more deeply than he cared to own, even to himself.

"And this cousin has written to you after all these years?" said the lady, finding her husband did not say any more.

"Yes, my dear."

And as he spoke, Major Ferrers took up the letter again and passed into his room, locking the door after him. He wanted to be alone, to think over the strange circumstance of his cousin writing to him—his proud, imperious cousin writing such a gentle, regretful letter. He read it over again, and as he read, a strange yearning to visit his native land came over him.

He had never been to England since he left it, years before, and he had resisted all his wife's importunities to return there. But now, as he sat in the little dim hot room—dim because of the noonday sun that must be so jealously excluded—a tide of recollections rushed to his memory. He thought of the pleasant breezes and cool green lanes of Old England, and pictured the springing corn and flowering hedgerows, until the longing to see them once more grew almost painful in its intensity. After an hour spent over his cousin's letter, and the emotions and recollections it had awakened, he returned to his wife.

"What do you say to my getting leave of absence to visit England?" he said abruptly.

The lady was half asleep, but she started up instantly on hearing these words. "O, Edgar, will you really go?" she said.

"I think I must try to do so," said her husband.

"And then we can make further inquiries about—about our darling Milly," said the lady, the tears welling up to her eyes as she spoke.

"Yes, my dear, we can, certainly; but we must not be too sanguine about the result. Even if a child was saved from the wreck, it might not be ours. And then some years have passed since, and so many things might happen in two or three years."

"Yes, many things," said the lady, meditatively; "but still I feel sure my child is living somewhere. O, I wonder where she can be?"

The major shook his head. He had often heard his wife express this same strong feeling; but his own faith in ever seeing his child again was well-nigh gone now. He had hoped, almost against hope, until the present time; but now that another mail had come in, bringing him no intelligence whatever, this hope had died out.

"I think I shall write to Mr. Mansfield at once," said Major Ferrers, after a few minutes silence.

"And you will tell him we are coming to England to search for our little girl?" said his wife.

"Yes, I think I must tell him all about it; for his letter is so different from anything I could ever have expected from him, that I feel bound to write as friendly as possible, and this will be something to tell him—something to write about."

"How soon can we leave India, do you think?" asked the lady, as her husband arose from his seat.

"Well, not for a month or two, certainly, my dear. But I shall set about making the needful preparations at once, and you had better do the same." Saying which, the gentleman left the room to commence the reply to his cousin's letter.

CHAPTER X.

"BLESSED ARE THE MEEK."

"HERE is a letter—a letter from India, I do believe!" exclaimed Milly one morning, as she came into the breakfast room, and took up the thin light letter, with its strange foreign postmarks.

She was all impatience for the doctor to make his appearance now. And when she heard him descending the stairs, she ran to meet him with it in her hand.

"A letter!—A letter!" she shouted, dancing through the hall. "A letter from India, I'm sure."

The doctor took it from her hand, and looked at it with eagerness.

"It is from Edgar," he exclaimed, as he reached the breakfast room; "he lives, then!" And overpowered with emotion, he sunk into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

After a short time, he recovered himself sufficiently to read his letter, but that part of it in which was communicated the loss of their little girl when on her way to England with her nurse, affected him even more deeply than the knowledge that his cousin was still living had done.

He started as he read the name "Milly," and glanced across the table to the little girl now sitting before him. Could it be possible that she was his cousin's child? He had learned to look upon her and love her as his own, and now to think of another claiming her as a parent, claiming the first place in her affections, caused him a sharp thrill of pain.

"Is it a nice letter?" asked Milly, pausing in her work of eating bread and butter to look across at the doctor.

"Come here, Milly," said the gentleman.

The little girl came around to his side, lifting her eyes wonderingly to his face. Something in them, and the light clustering curls, brought another face to his memory,—a young, boyish face—and instead of kissing the upturned face, the doctor moved aside. Yes, it must be; this was Edgar's child, his long-lost Milly. And then the doctor recalled the strange impression he had felt, when she was first brought to him, of having seen the child before.

Milly looked and felt hurt at the half-repulse she had received, and her eyes were full of tears when she went back to her seat, but the doctor was too disturbed to notice this just now.

He did remark, however, that instead of running into the garden as usual after breakfast, she went up stairs to her own room, and the incident somewhat puzzled him, more especially as it was some time before she came down again.

When at length she came into the room again, she was looking somewhat pale and saddened, and with the traces of tears still on her face.

"What is the matter?" asked Dr. Mansfield, looking up from the book he was trying to read.

Milly colored, and her lips trembled a little as she said, "I was afraid—" and there she stopped.

"What were you afraid of, Milly?" asked the doctor, drawing her to him.

"I thought perhaps you were going to love your cousin in India better than me," said Milly slowly, and coloring as she spoke.

The doctor stooped and kissed the little troubled face. "Suppose I should do so?" he said, a smile parting his lips.

"I don't think I should mind much—at least, not very much now," she added.

"Why not?" asked the doctor. "Are you going to leave off loving me?" And a sharp pain shot through his heart as he uttered the light words.

For answer, she threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him. "O no, no!" she exclaimed. "I shall always love you."

"God bless you, my darling," murmured the doctor fervently. "You have been a blessing to me, Milly, and the thought of parting with you makes me very sad. But now tell me why you would not mind it so very much?" he added, when he had soothed her.

"I've been asking Jesus to help me learn my text better, 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,'" said Milly.

"But you learned that long ago, Milly," said the doctor; "learned to practise it, too, in subduing your temper."

"Yes, but 'meek' means so much," said Milly. "We used to talk about it when Bob and Jack were out fishing."

"The widow, do you mean?" said the doctor.

Milly nodded. "Mother told me that 'meek' meant something like this—that we must not mind when other people are liked better than we are; that we ought to esteem others better than ourselves, and not feel grieved when they did the same."

The doctor sighed. "That is not very easy to do, Milly," he said.

"It's very hard, I think," said Milly, "especially when you love somebody very much—" (and she laid her head on the doctor's shoulder), "and are afraid they'll love somebody else better than they do you," and the little girl heaved a deep sigh as she spoke.

"Suppose I should love this cousin in India better than you, Milly, what should you do?"

The little girl lifted her eyes at the question. "I think Jesus would help me not to mind about it, because he is your cousin, and you ought to love him," she said.

"Do you think you could be glad too, Milly," asked the doctor, "when I seemed pleased to meet my cousin?"

"It wouldn't be easy, but I think Jesus would help me to feel glad by and by, if I asked Him, and then you would always love me a little, wouldn't you?" she added.

"Yes, my darling, I shall always love you—love you as dearly as though you were my own little girl. But now, Milly, suppose you could prevent my loving this cousin—suppose you could make him stay In India and not come to England at all, should you not do it if you were afraid I would love him better than you?"

The little girl sat thoughtfully looking out of the window for a minute or two before she answered. But at length, she said slowly, "That wouldn't be right; he is your cousin, and you ought to love him, and I ought to be satisfied with a little bit of love, if you could not give me any more. Perhaps Jesus does not think it will be good for me to have the most any longer. Mother said that was another thing that being meek meant."

Milly generally spoke of the widow as her "mother," and this had sometimes caused some few jealous thoughts, for she had never given him any other title than that of "doctor."

"I think that poor widow was almost as good as a mother to you, was she not, Milly?" said the doctor, after a minute's silence.

"Yes, almost as good as you," said Milly, throwing her arms about his neck.

The doctor stroked the clustering curls from her forehead, and whispered, "Suppose, Milly, you were to hear that you had a real mother, like other little girls, such as you were talking about the other day?"

Her bright blue eyes opened with a sudden look of intelligence, or returning memory. "I had a mamma once, think," she said.

"Do you remember anything about her?" asked Dr. Mansfield.

The little girl shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I can remember a soldier carrying me to a big ship, and then going away."

"That must have been your papa, I think," said the doctor.

"My papa! How do you know that?" asked Milly.

"Because I have just heard something about it. Milly, would you be very glad to see your papa and mamma again?" asked the doctor slowly, almost sadly.

The little girl clapped her hands with delight. "O yes, yes!" she exclaimed. "I think my papa was a soldier, and my mamma a beautiful lady, that was always ill. But there were black people where we lived," she suddenly said.

The doctor had little doubt before but that this little waif the sea had cast up at his door was his cousin's long-lost daughter, and these sudden flashes of light on the all-but-forgotten past that came to Milly's mind did but confirm it. And he felt sure now that he should have to yield his place—the first place in the little girl's affection—to another.

It may seem strange to some that this should cause the doctor so much pain as it did, seeing Milly was but a child, and Dr. Mansfield a clever learned man. But it must be remembered that she was the only one in all the world that he loved, or that really loved him. She had come to him in his misery and depression, and instead of shrinking from him as all others did, she had soothed and comforted him, almost as an angel. And by her simple childish example, more than by her words, had led him to look to God for strength to do battle with his sin and sorrowful remorse.

This was the real secret of Milly's power with the doctor. She had herself learned the power of meekness from the example and teaching of Jesus, and, following in His footsteps, she had become His representative—His little messenger of mercy and love to her good friend the doctor.

She would not, could not, have been all this, had she not learned by experience, "blessed are meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

She had not learned this quickly or easily. Many a hard battle had been fought in the lowly fisherman's cottage before her proud passionate temper had been subdued; but it was conquered, and then she could and did, in her own simple childlike manner, teach the doctor what she herself had learned of the blessedness of the meek.

But she could not have taught him this lesson had she not learned it herself first—learned it by practice. For remember dear reader, we only learn and know a truth in such measure as we use and practise it in our daily life. Milly had so learned this, her favorite text. She had learned to be meek, and God had given her the promised inheritance. But for this, her stay at Dr. Mansfield's would probably have been a very short one, and she would have lost all the advantages such a home afforded her, and—what was to her far more precious than all the luxury and wealth of her adopted home—the fond and tender love of the doctor himself.

And now, God was going to add to all these blessings the restored one of parents' love. She might have been discovered if she had been sent to the workhouse at the widow's death; but the probabilities are, she would never have been heard of again.

The doctor tried to draw from Milly all that she remembered of her parents and her early home. But it was not much she could recall beyond the fact of being taken on board a large vessel, with a black woman, who nursed her, and cried over her when the soldier had left them. But this was enough to convince him of her identity. And the following day he sat down and wrote another letter to India, describing how a little girl had been saved, and what she remembered of her early years.

The thought that had suggested itself to his mind was, that he should take Milly and remove to a distant part of the country before his cousin could reach England and claim her. He tried to persuade himself that there would be no harm in this, as he was not sure it was his cousin's child, and he could not, therefore, be said to steal her, or unlawfully detain her from her parents. But Milly's simple talk of what she had been trying to do, when she feared another would claim the first place the doctor's affection, led him to abandon this plan, and, following her example, to try and be content with a lower place than he had hitherto held—content that others should share in that love that had hitherto been his own.

It was, perhaps, the hardest lesson of unselfishness he had had to learn. The others had brought with them the promised blessing—the promised inheritance in increase of happiness. But this could bring nothing but sorrow, he thought—sorrow and loneliness and desolation—for if Milly were taken from him, all that made life bright to him would be gone, so that the doctor may be excused for feeling sad and sorrowful about what gave his adopted little daughter so much joy as the anticipation of once more seeing her parents naturally did.

CHAPTER XI.

CONCLUSION.

MRS. FERRERS and her husband were again anxiously awaiting the arrival of the European mail—the lady as impatient and the gentleman as fidgety as they had been when the former letter arrived.

They were not, however, expecting to hear of their daughter now—not at least until they could reach England, and make further inquiries themselves; but it was this return to their native land that made them so anxious for the arrival of this mail.

As soon as Major Ferrers had decided to return, he had written to ask leave of absence at head-quarters. Such a request could scarcely be refused, for he had now been in the service many years, and never once had made such an application. So he felt sure of obtaining it, although he was naturally anxious until it was put beyond the possibility of doubt by its actual arrival.

"Let me see, how soon could we leave if you get the order by this mail?" said the lady languidly, as her maid gently fanned her as she lay on the couch.

"Your preparations are nearly completed, are they not?" said her husband.

"Yes, I have done a good deal of packing," said the lady; which meant that her servants had, with an occasional word of direction from their mistress.

"There need be very little delay, then. We shall be in England in a few weeks, I have no doubt."

But this hope of reaching England so soon was doomed to disappointment. The mail came in a few hours afterwards, but no letter granting Major Ferrers leave of absence. The gentleman fidgeted a good deal when he found it had not arrived. But fidgeting did not bring it, and he had to content himself with the only letter that fell to his share.

"The order has not come," he said irritably, as he entered his wife's sitting room again. "There's so much form to be gone through, I suppose, that they've missed the mail."

The lady looked disappointed. "You have a letter," she said at length, glancing at the one her husband held in his hand.

"Yes, merely an answer from Mr. Mansfield, I expect," he said, opening it as he spoke. "O, another long epistle!" he exclaimed, glancing down the closely-written paper.

He sat down to read it in a comfortable, leisurely manner. But before he had got over many lines, he started to his feet.

"Goodness, Maria!" he exclaimed. And then, recollecting himself, he dropped into his seat.

"What is it? What is the matter?" asked the lady, rousing herself to look at her husband. The expression of his countenance startled her, and she came around to his side. "What is it, Edgar?" she said. "Tell me, do tell me what has happened."

"Wait a minute, my dear, until I have finished, and then I will tell you all—everything," he added.

"Everything!" she repeated. "About what?"

"About the darling child—our long-lost Milly."

"Is she found, then? Have you news of her? I thought you said the letter was from your cousin, Mr. Mansfield."

"So it is, my dear; and I doubt not he has found our Milly, or at least a little girl that he thinks—he says fears—must be our child."

"O, where—how did he find her?" asked the lady impatiently. "Tell me everything about her—Is she well?—What is she like?—Is her hair fair or dark?" These and some half-dozen other questions were asked so rapidly, that it was quite impossible for her husband to answer one of them.

But by degrees, all that Mr. Mansfield had said concerning Milly was communicated, and she grew more calm.

A few hours afterwards, when the husband and wife were again talking of the strange tidings that had reached them—tidings so joyful, that at present nothing else could be thought of or talked about—Major Ferrers suddenly said, "I think my cousin must be greatly changed since I saw him."

"Why, what makes you think that?" asked his wife.

"Well, the way in which he has acted in this affair. He was rather selfish when a boy; in fact, it was that and my provoking temper that led to our last quarrel. But I seem to see somehow in this letter he has written about Milly, that he is acting altogether unselfishly. It is plain that he loves the child very much; for in one place he says that he fears she may be ours."

"He may love her," said the lady, "but he must think that her parents would love her more."

"Well, I don't know; he speaks of leading a lonely bachelor life, and if this is so, and he has become attached to the child, he must feel almost as a father would towards her by this time."

"But he does not refuse to give her up, does he?" asked the lady in a tone of alarm.

"O no; he would not do that, it is not likely. But what I was going to say is, that he will feel parting with her very much, I am afraid."

"Nevertheless, we have the right to take our own child," protested the lady.

"Yes, Maria; but I was thinking that if this should prove to be our long-lost darling, whether it would not be better for me to leave the army and remain in England. Somehow I should hardly like the thought of claiming this little girl and taking her away from my cousin entirely, if things are as I imagine."

In this view of the matter, however, the lady did not concur. She was very selfish, and her husband knew it, and that was why he took so early an opportunity of mentioning the claims Dr. Mansfield would still have, not only upon Milly but upon their gratitude. Of course, a reply was dispatched to the doctor at once, telling him that they would come to England with all speed, but the idea of his leaving the army and permanently settling in his native land was not mentioned.

Upon more mature deliberation, Major Ferrers thought it would be best to see the little girl first, and make sure that she was his own child. And then find out whether he and his cousin were likely to prove agreeable neighbors, for otherwise, such an arrangement as he had thought of, might prove very awkward.

It was a most anxious time, for Dr. Mansfield, that intervened between the arrival of this second letter from India and that of Major Ferrers himself. Sometimes he still fondly clung to the hope that Milly might not be claimed; but this hope was at an end the moment he saw his cousin. There was no mistaking Milly's identity then. She had the blue eyes and fair hair of her father, and the pretty rosebud mouth and dimpled chin of her mother, and it needed but a glance to see that she was the connecting link between the two.

Mrs. Ferrers recognized her instantly, in spite of the great change six years had wrought in her. Milly could not, of course, remember her mamma, and so little accustomed had she been to the society of ladies, that she felt shy and awkward. And though she was much more ready to make friends with her papa, the appealing glances she occasionally directed towards Dr. Mansfield showed that she still clung to him more than to her real parents, much as she had anticipated their coming.

It was a trying ordeal for the doctor—this meeting with his cousin—trying in many ways, but especially in this, that he came to claim as his right all that made life cheerful and happy to him. He had thought of this with some bitterness, but he tried to subdue the feeling now, and yield the right he had hitherto had on Milly's affection.

It was arranged that Major Ferrers and his wife should remain with Dr. Mansfield for a few weeks. And during this time, the doctor was very desirous not to engross the little girl's attention, but withdrew himself as much as possible, to give her an opportunity of becoming acquainted with her parents. He often wondered whether Major Ferrers intended taking the child back to India when he returned. But nothing had as yet been said upon the subject, and the doctor scarcely liked to ask, although he longed to do so.

At length, however, the major himself spoke. They were walking in the garden, and Milly had slipped her hand into that of the doctor and was walking by his side, when her papa joined them.

"Well, pussy, have you told your other papa what we were talking about while he was out yesterday?" asked Major Ferrers, giving Milly a tap.

"No, papa—you said you would do it," answered Milly, coloring up slightly.

"O, I see you are a little ashamed of yourself to-day," laughed the major. "What will you think of her, doctor, when I tell you that she has positively refused to go with me to India, or to London either?"

The doctor glanced fondly at the little bowed figure walking by his side, but he made no reply.

"Yes, she positively refuses to stir from this place, except upon one condition—which is, that you go with us, doctor," went on the gentleman, in the same merry tone.

"But I could not go to India," said the doctor, gravely.

"I don't think I shall go again myself," said the major, speaking more seriously. "I think seriously of leaving the army altogether, and settling down in dear old England."

The doctor looked up quickly at these words. "And where would you settle?" he asked.

"Near London, I think. That would be most advantageous to me for many reasons, and my wife also wishes it as well."

"And Milly?" said the doctor questioningly.

"She will go with—"

"If Dr. Mansfield goes, I said, papa," interrupted Milly at this point, clasping the doctor's hand more closely as she spoke.

He looked at her fondly, but shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot do that, Milly," he said; "I should be in everybody's way, and—"

But at this point he was interrupted by his cousin, and his determination not to leave his home was so fiercely and successfully combated, that he at length promised to think the matter over.

After the major had left them, Milly commenced the attack. "You will come with us, won't you?" she said, coaxingly. "I said I couldn't go without you; but papa could make me, you know, and I don't know what I should do without you."

"Would you miss me very much, Milly?" said the doctor, gently stroking the fair curls.

"Miss you! O, I don't think I could ever love my own papa and mamma if you did not love me still."

And as the doctor sat down in the summer-house, Milly threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him fondly.

Meanwhile Major Ferrers had gone in to tell his wife the result.

"I think we shall bring the doctor round," he said, gleefully rubbing his hands as he told her what had passed in the garden.

"I don't think there's so much to be glad about," said the lady, a little discontentedly. "In fact, I thought at first that such a plan would not do at all."

"Why not?" asked her husband, in some surprise.

"Well, you see, I thought it was very possible, that if he was so fond of Milly, he would be jealous of our claims upon her, and that would make it very disagreeable if we were living together; for, of course, I should expect the first place in my child's affections. But he has certainly acted very sensibly, I must say, and therefore I can have no objection to his coming to live with us, if you and Milly wish it."

What it had cost the doctor to act "sensibly," as Mrs. Ferrers called it, she did not know. Many a hard battle had to be fought with himself over this first place in Milly's affections, that her mother talked of as her right; but the victory had been gained, and brought with it its own reward.

No thought of first or second place in her love troubled him now, as he sat in the summer-house, holding her on his knee, glad that he should not be separated from her—that he should still be able to watch over her. This thought filled his heart, and Milly was not less happy than the doctor.

"I don't think I'm afraid now," she said, after a lengthened pause, gently stroking the doctor's face.

"Afraid of what, Milly?" asked the doctor.

"Don't you remember I was afraid you would love papa most a little while ago?" she said.

He smiled at the thought of such a thing. "Then you are not afraid of it now?" he asked.

"No, not a bit. I think God has made us all love one another; only—" (she added in a whisper) "I can't love mamma quite enough yet; but I dare say that will come by and by, and I dare say I shall soon love her almost as well I do you and papa."

"Yes, Milly, you must try and love your mamma," said the doctor; "she will be grieved if her little girl does not love her."

It was a surprise to the doctor himself that he could talk to the little girl in this way, but somehow the jealousy had all gone out of his heart, and it was almost with the gladness of a little child that he could look forward to going once more into the world.

A few months afterwards, Major Ferrers, with his wife, and Milly, and Dr. Mansfield, removed to London. An arrangement had been made that part of the year should be spent there, and part at the doctor's old house.

Neither he nor Milly were willing to forsake the little village with its humble friends and dear associations. Two of these friend were especially sorry to lose the bright-haired little girl from their midst, although they had good reason to be glad at the coming of her parents.

Major Ferrers presented a boat to the two brothers, Jack and Bob, as their joint property, as a token of his gratitude for saving Milly the night of the shipwreck, and taking such good care of her during the time she lived with them.

But what rejoiced the hearts of the young fishermen as much as anything else, was the stone placed at the head of their mother's humble grave in the village churchyard. It was a plain slab of granite, with the name and age of the widow, and, underneath, Milly's favorite text, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

Milly asked that this might be placed on it, and the doctor concurred in the wish, for both knew that it was to the practical learning of that text that they owed their life's happiness.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

MILLY'S ERRAND;

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

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