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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


*** 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.

[Illustration: Bob ran to it, and saw that a child was securely lashed
 to it.]



                        MILLY'S ERRAND;

                              OR,

                        SAVED TO SAVE.


                              BY

                         EMMA LESLIE



                        [Illustration]



                         PHILADELPHIA:
                        ALFRED MARTIEN
                      1214 CHESTNUT STREET.

                             1873.



 ————————————————————————
      Alfred Martien,
 PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER.



                           CONTENTS.

                        [Illustration]


   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.

                        [Illustration]

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."

[Illustration: 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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