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She knelt in front of a chair, and the doctor kneltbeside her.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.