A PRODIGAL.
A PRODIGAL.
"Uncle Edward, nurse and I are going shopping; would you like us to buy you anything? We are going in the dog-cart with Harris."
Milly was dancing up and down on the rug inside the front door as she spoke. It was a bright, frosty morning, and Sir Edward was leaving the breakfast-room with the newspaper and a large packet of letters in his hand. He stopped and glanced at the little fur-clad figure as she stood there, eager anticipation written on her face, and his thoughts went back to the time when he as a boy looked upon a day's visit to the neighboring town—nine miles away—as one of his greatest pleasures.
"Yes," he said, slowly fumbling in his waistcoat pocket; "you can get me some pens and blotting paper at the stationer's. I will write down the kind I want, and here is the money. Keep the change, and buy anything you like with it."
Milly's cheeks flushed with delight as she took the money—
"What a lot it will buy!" she said. "Thank you very much indeed. I was wanting to buy something my own self, and I've only a little cook gave me, but now I shall be quite rich."
It was late in the afternoon when nurse and her little charge drove back, and Sir Edward met them coming up the avenue. Milly's face was clouded, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks, and this was such an unusual sight that Sir Edward inquired of the nurse what was the matter.
"She has not been good, sir, I am sorry to say. It isn't often that I have to pull her up, but she has given me such a fright and trouble this afternoon as I am not likely to forget in a hurry."
"What has she been doing? But never mind; I will not detain you now. I can hear about it when we get in."
Nurse was evidently very disturbed in mind, for she poured into Sir Edward's ear, directly they were inside the hall, a confused story:—
"I was in the grocer's, sir, and I knew I should be there some time; for cook, she gave me so many commissions I had to write a long list of them. I said to Miss Milly, 'You can stand outside, but don't go a step farther.' She knows she is never allowed to speak to such people; I've known, as I told her, children being carried bodily off and set down at a street corner with hardly a rag on their backs; and to think of her marching off with him, and never a thought of my anxiety—and the way I went rushing up and down the streets—and the policemen—they are perfectly useless to help a person, but can only stare at you and grin. I'm sure I never expected to light eyes on her again, and I lost my purse and my best umbrella; I left them both somewhere, but it was nigh on two hours I spent, and my shopping not near done, and he the greatest looking rascal that one might see coming out of jail. I'm sure I shouldn't have been so angry but to see her smiling face, as if she hadn't done any wrong at all, nor disobeyed me flatly, and most likely put herself in the way of catching the most infectious disease from the very look of him, and run the risk of being robbed and perhaps murdered, and not an idea in her head that she was a very naughty child, but quite expected me to see the reasonableness of it all!"
Nurse stopped for breath, whilst Milly's hanging head, heaving chest, and quick sobs showed that by this time nurse's words had quite convinced her of her wrong-doing.
Sir Edward was surprised at the interest he felt in his little niece's trouble.
"I am afraid I cannot understand your story, nurse," he said quietly; "but I daresay Miss Millicent will tell me herself. Come into the study, child, with me."
He took her hand in his, and led her away, while nurse looked after him in astonishment, and Ford, the old butler, standing by, said with great solemnity,—
"You may well stare, nurse. Mark my words, that child will be able to twist him round with her little finger one of these days. I see it a-developin'. It will be a terrible come-down to the master—but there, I will say that the women always conquer, and they begin it when they're in short frocks."
"I don't see the remarkableness in a gentleman taking notice of his own sister's child," returned nurse testily; "the wonder is that he should hold her at arm's length as he does, and treat her as if she were a dog or a piece of furniture, without any feelings, and she his own flesh and blood, too. There's no 'coming down' to have a spark of humanity in his breast occasionally."
And nurse sailed upstairs, the loss of her purse and umbrella having considerably ruffled her usually even temper.
Sir Edward seated himself by the study fire, and Milly stood before him, one little hand resting upon his knee and the other holding her tiny handkerchief to her eyes, and vainly trying to restrain her sobs.
"Now suppose you stop crying, and tell me what has happened!" her uncle said, feeling moved at seeing his usually self-contained little niece in such grief.
Milly applied her handkerchief vigorously to her eyes, and looking up with quivering lips, she said,—
"I didn't mean to be naughty, uncle. Nurse hasn't been angry with me like she is now foryears, and I'msounhappy!"
The pitiful tone and look touched Sir Edward's heart, and, on the impulse of the moment, he did what he had never as yet attempted—lifted her upon his knee, and told her to proceed with her story; and Milly, after a final struggle with her tears, got the better of them, and was able to give him a pretty clear account of what had happened.
"I had bought your pens and blotting-paper, uncle, and was going to a picture-shop to spend the rest of my money when nurse had finished at the grocer's. I was standing outside, when I saw a man coming along. He limped, and his hat was broken in, and he was so ragged that I thought he must be a probable son, and then I thought he might be Tommy going home, and when I thought that, I couldn't think of nothing else, and I forgot all about nurse, and I forgot she told me to stay there, and I ran after him as hard as I could. I caught him up, and he looked very astonished when I asked him was his name Tommy. He said, 'No,' and he laughed at me, and then I asked him was he a probable son, because he looked like one. He said he didn't know what kind of person that was. And then I had to explain it to him. He told me he had never had a home to run away from, so that wouldn't do; but he really looked just like the man I've seen in Mr. Maxwell's picture, and I told him so, and then I found out what he was, and I was so sorry, and yet I was so glad."
Milly paused, and her large, expressive eyes shone as she turned them up to her uncle's face, and her voice dropped almost to a whisper as she said,—
"I found out he was one of God's probable sons. When I asked him if he had run away from God, he said yes, he supposed he had done that, so of course he was ragged and unhappy."
"That is not always the case," put in Sir Edward, half touched, half amused. "Sometimes it is very rich people who run away from God, and they get richer when they are away from Him."
Milly looked puzzled.
"But they can't be happy, uncle. Oh, they never can be!"
"Perhaps not."
"Well, I talked to this poor man till we had walked quite away from the shops, and then he turned down a lane, and I went with him; and we were both rather tired, so we sat down together on some doorsteps inside an archway, and he told me all about himself. His name is Jack, and his father and mother are dead, like mine; and he got drunk one night, and fell down and broke his arm, and then he went to a hospital; and when he got well and went back to his work again, his master couldn't take him, because some one else was in his place, and he couldn't get any work. I asked him were there no pigs to keep, but he said there weren't any in London, and he was there, and for six months, he told me, he had been 'on the tramp'; that's what he called it. I asked him what that meant, and he said just walking on every day to no place particular. And he said something about going to the bad, which I couldn't quite understand. Then I asked him why he didn't go back to God, and he said he had been a good boy once, when he went to Sunday-school, and he had a very good uncle who kept a baker's shop in London, and who wanted him to go and live with him, but he wouldn't, because he was too good for him. And I asked him why he wouldn't go to him now, and he said he couldn't tramp back again to London, it was too far, and he had no money. So then I opened my purse, and we counted over my money together, and he said it was just enough to take him back, if I would lend it to him. So, of course, I did, and he asked me my name and where I lived, and I told him."
"The scoundrel!" muttered Sir Edward.
Milly paused. "Why are you looking so angry, uncle? I was so glad to give him the money; and then we talked a good deal, and I begged him not to be one of God's probable sons any more. Fancy! He wouldn't believe God loved him, and he wouldn't believe that God wanted him back! I told him I should be quite frightened to get away from God, and he—well, he almost didn't seem to care; he said no one cared what came of him, whether he was hung, dead, or not; and I told him no one cared for me much except nurse, but God did. I feel He loves me, and I know He loves Jack just the same; doesn't He, uncle?"
"And when did nurse find you?" inquired Sir Edward, evading this question.
Milly's little face, which had been gradually brightening with the interest of her story, now clouded over again, and she hung her head.
"She was fearful angry with me. She was quite hot and red, and she snatched me away, and said that Jack was a thief and—and a vagbag, or something like that. She scolded me all the way home, and I don't think she will ever love me again. She said it was just a chance she found me, and if she hadn't come along that lane I should have been lost forever! And she was angry most of all because I shook hands with Jack and wished him good-bye. I don't think nurse would run and meet a probable son if she had one; she thinks all ragged people are wicked. But I'm—I'm dreadful sorry I was disobedient. Do you think I have been very naughty, Uncle Edward?"
Sir Edward twisted the ends of his moustache slowly. "I think you were naughty to run after a strange man like that, and I quite understand nurse's displeasure. You made her exceedingly anxious."
"And is God very angry with me?"
"God is not pleased with disobedient children."
"May I kneel down and ask him to forgive me now?"
Sir Edward hesitated. "I think you had better go to the nursery and do it there."
"I don't want to see nurse till I have done it. May I? Will you ask God to forgive me too?"
"Your prayer will be quite sufficient."
Milly slipped off his knee, and then, kneeling down with folded hands and closed eyes, she said softly,—
"Please God, will you forgive me! I'm so sorry I disobeyed nurse and ran away. And please take care of Jack, and bring him back to you, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
"Now run along to nurse, and don't cry any more," said Sir Edward, as he rose from his seat.
Milly looked back wistfully as she reached the door.
"Do you think nurse is still angry?"
"Tell nurse from me that she is not to scold you any more. The loss of your money ought to be a lesson to you."
"But I didn't lose it, uncle. I lent it to Jack. He wouldn't let me give it to him; he said he would send it back to me in a letter."
Sir Edward laughed unbelievingly, and Milly trotted upstairs to be received with open arms by nurse at the nursery door.
"There! never mind, my dear. I have been very angry with you, but you'll never do such a thing again. Come and have your tea. I've had a cup already, and feel wonderful better. Now, don't cry any more; bless your little heart, I can't bear to see you in tears."
With that nurse took her up in her arms; and poor tired little Milly whispered, as she clung to her,—
"I was afraid you would never love me again. I've told God I'm sorry; do you quite forgive me?"
"Quite, my lamb," was the reply; "and as to loving you, I shouldn't give over doing that if you were twice as troublesome."
A PROMISE KEPT.
A PROMISE KEPT.
About a fortnight later Sir Edward, who always opened the post-bag himself, found there a letter addressed to his little niece, and sent a message to the nursery to tell her to come down to him. She arrived very surprised at the summons, as Sir Edward always wished to be left undisturbed at his breakfast, but when she saw the letters on the table she cried out joyously,—
"Good morning, Uncle Edward. I know there's a letter from Jack for me, isn't there? I've been waiting for it every day."
"I think there may be, judging from the writing on the envelope. Come here and open it."
Milly took the letter, and her little fingers fairly trembled with excitement as she opened it, saying softly to herself as she did so,—
"I knew he would keep his promise. I knew he wasn't a thief."
A money order dropped out.
"Well," said Sir Edward, "you were right, little woman, and we were wrong. Would you like me to read it for you?"
"Yes, please, uncle."
The letter read as follows:—
"I am as good as my word, little Miss, in sendingyou back what you lent me with many gratefulthanks for the loan, as I reached London safe andhave never touched a drop of drink since I seenyou, and am in work at my uncle's, which is goodof him to take me, and am getting good wages andgoes to church again. And my uncle has a chumwhich is a street preacher, and comes along ofplenty of fellows like I was, and I told him of youryoung fellow, Tommy Maxwell, and he will keep alook-out for him. Tell the woman that fetchedyou sharp away that I'll hold up my head with heryet, and every night I asks God to bless you, for Ihopes I am getting on the right track again, andthank you kindly for your talk, which is sticking tome."Yours obediently,"JACK GRAY."
Sir Edward laid the letter down in silence when he had finished reading it. Milly's face was radiant.
"I've never had a letter in my life before, uncle, but I don't quite understand all of it. Will you explain it to me?"
And this her uncle did, sending her upstairs at length to show it to nurse, but sitting wrapped in thought himself and leaving both his letters and breakfast untouched for some considerable time.
That same day he went out driving in the afternoon with a young horse, and returning home met a traction engine, at which the horse instantly took fright and bolted.
For some time Sir Edward kept steadily to his seat, and though powerless to check the animal's course was able to guide it; but in spite of all his efforts the trap was at last upset, and he was thrown violently to the ground. He had no groom with him, and the accident took place on a lonely road, so that it was not till an hour later that help came, in the shape of a farmer returning from market in his cart. He found Sir Edward unconscious, and the horse still feebly struggling to extricate himself from under the trap, which was badly broken.
It was about seven o'clock in the evening when Sir Edward was brought home, and he had three ribs broken, besides some very severe injuries to his head. The doctor wished to telegraph for a nurse from London, but Sir Edward had a horror of them, and having recovered consciousness shook his head vehemently when it was suggested; and so it ended in Milly's nurse volunteering to assist his valet in nursing him. Poor little Milly wandered about the house with Fritz at her heels in a very woe-begone fashion. What with the anxiety in her heart lest her uncle should die, and the absence of her nurse—who could spare little time now to look after her—she felt most forlorn, and her greatest comfort was to go down to the keeper's cottage and talk to Mrs. Maxwell.
Sir Edward was soon out of danger, but he was a long time recovering, and required most careful nursing. Milly begged and entreated to go in and see him, but this was not allowed. At last permission was given by the doctor for a very short visit, and the child stole in on tip-toe, but insisted upon taking a large brown paper parcel in with her, the contents of which were unknown to all except herself.
Softly she crept up to the bed and looked at her uncle's bandaged head and worn face with the greatest awe.
He put out his hand, which she took in hers, and then she said, her brown eyes fixed wistfully on his face,—
"I've wanted to see you, Uncle Edward, for so long. I wish you would let me come in and help to nurse you."
Sir Edward smiled, then shook his head.
"I've been asking God to make you better so many times," she continued, softly stroking his hand as she spoke, "and He is going to make you live again; now isn't He? I wasn't quite sure whether you mightn't like to die best, but I didn't want you to. Nurse says I mustn't stay a moment, but I've brought you a present. Maxwell went to the town and got it for me with the money Jack sent back to me. May I open it for you?"
Reading assent in his eyes, Milly eagerly removed her brown paper, and then lifted on to the bed with difficulty a picture of the Prodigal Son, in a plain oak frame.
"Isn't it a lovely one, Uncle Edward? There's the prodigal son—I've learned to say it properly now—all in rags hurrying along the road, and there's his old father in the distance coming to meet him; and can you see the words underneath?—'I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee.' I thought you would like it to look at while you are in bed. May I rest it against the rail at the bottom of your bed?—then you can see it beautifully."
Nurse came forward and helped the child to put the picture in the place she wished; and Sir Edward tried to look pleased, and said in a low tone,—
"Thank you, little one, I can see it well from there"; but under his breath he muttered, "Has she a purpose in bringing that everlasting subject before me? I'm sick to death of it. I shall get rid of that picture when she is gone."
But he did not. His eyes grew somewhat wistful as he gazed upon it, and later in the day, when nurse asked him if he would like to have it removed, he shook his head in the negative.
No one could know his thoughts during those long days and nights of weariness and pain. The restlessness of body did not equal the restlessness of soul, and the past came back with a startling vividness. The wasted years, the misused talents, and above all, the fast-closed heart against its rightful Owner, now seemed to stand up in judgment against him. Often in his wretchedness would he groan aloud, and wish for unconsciousness to come to his aid and consign to oblivion his accusing memory.
It was a cold, gray afternoon. Mrs. Maxwell's little kitchen was in perfect order. The fire shed flickering lights on the bright dish-covers on the wall, and the blue and white china on the old-fashioned dresser was touched with a ruddy glow. Mrs. Maxwell herself, seated in a wooden rocking-chair, in spotless white apron, was knitting busily as she talked; and Milly on a low stool, the tabby in her arms, with her golden-brown curls in pretty disorder, and her large dark eyes gazing earnestly into the fire, completed the picture.
"Do you like winter, Mrs. Maxwell?" she was asking.
"Well, my dear, I can't say as I don't prefer the summer; but there!—the Almighty sends it, and it must be right, and I don't think folks have a right to grumble and go rushing off to them foreign parts, a-leaving their own country and the weather God gives them, because they say they must have sunshine. I allays thinks they've no sunshine in their hearts, or they wouldn't be so up and down with the weather."
"I think winter is a very lonely time, Mrs. Maxwell, and I'm so sorry for the trees. I was out this morning with Fritz, and I talked to them and tried to cheer them up. And I think they feel they're nearly dead, poor things! and they were shivering with cold this morning; they were, really. I told them they would be happy when next summer comes, but they sighed and shook their heads; it's such a long time to wait, and they have nothing to do—they can only stand still. I was very sad this morning. After I had talked to them, I went down to the plantation at the bottom of the lawn, and on the way I came to a poor dead frog. Fritz sniffed at him, but he didn't seem to be sorry. I don't know how he died. I thought perhaps he had stayed out in the cold and got frozen, he felt so very cold. I took him up and buried him, and I wondered if his mother would miss him; and then I went on a little farther, and there were some little bird's feathers all in a heap on the ground. I felt sure a cruel cat had been eating it up, and I couldn't help crying, for everything seemed to be dying. And when I got to the plantation I was a little comforted, for the fir-trees looked so comfortable and warm—they hadn't lost their leaves like the other trees—but do you know, in the middle of them all was a tall, thin, bare tree—he looked so lonely and unhappy, and he was the only one without any leaves."
"One of those birches, I expect. My man, he said the other day that the fir plantation yonder wanted weeding out."
"Well, I couldn't bear to see him so sad, so I crept right in amongst the firs until I got to him, and then I put my arms right round him and cuddled him tight. I told him God would take care of him, and give him a beautiful new green dress next summer; but he seemed to feel the cold, and I expect the other trees aren't very kind to him. I always think the firs are very stiff and proud. I—I kissed him before I came away. It was a sad morning."
Milly's tone was truly pathetic, and Mrs. Maxwell, who loved to hear her childish fancies and never laughed at them, now looked up from her knitting sympathetically—
"You're sad yourself, dear. Is your uncle pretty well to-day?"
"I think he is getting better, but he mustn't talk, and nurse won't let me see him. I think it's winter makes me sad, Mrs. Maxwell."
There was silence for a few moments. Milly stroked her cat thoughtfully, then she said,—
"If Uncle Edward had died, what would have happened to me? Should I have had to go to the workhouse?"
"Bless your little heart, no! Why, my man and I was saying the other day that it's most sure as you'll be mistress of the property one day. Sir Edward he have no other kith or kin, as far as we know. Workhouse, indeed! A place where they takes in tramps and vagabonds."
"I heard some of the maids talking about it," pursued Milly; "they said they wondered what would happen to me. I think he is my only uncle, so I couldn't go anywhere else. I wish I had a father, Mrs. Maxwell, I'm always wishing for one. I never remember my father. My mother I do, but she was always ill, and she didn't like me to bother her. Do you know, I thought when I came to Uncle Edward that he would be a kind of father; Miss Kent said he would. But I'm afraid he doesn't like me to bother him either. I should like him to take me up in his arms and kiss me. Do you think he ever will? I feel as if no one cares for me sometimes."
"I think a certain little apple dumpling as I put in the oven for some one is smelling as if it wants to come out," was Mrs. Maxwell's brisk response as she bustled out of her chair, her old eyes moist with feeling.
In an instant Milly's pensiveness had disappeared. A baked apple dumpling had great charms for her, and no one would have believed that the light-hearted child with the merry laugh, now dancing around the room, and climbing up to the dresser for a plate, was the same as the one who had so sadly discoursed a few moments before on the mournfulness of winter and of her orphaned state.
"Did you make such nice apple dumplings for Tommy?" she asked presently, busy with her fork and spoon, and looking supremely content with herself and surroundings.
"Ah! Didn't I? I mind when he used to come in on Saturdays from the forge, I always had a hot pudding for him. He used to say there was no one as cooked as well as mother."
"He's a long time coming home, isn't he, Mrs. Maxwell? I get so tired of waiting. I wish he would come for Christmas."
"I'm not tired of waiting," Mrs. Maxwell said softly, "and I've waited these nine years, but it sometimes seems as if it is only yesterday as he went off. I feel at times like fretting sadly over him, and wish I knew if he was alive or dead, but then the Lord do comfort one, and I know He sees just where he is, and He'll let me know when the right time comes."
"I'm expecting him every day," said Milly with a cheerful little nod. "I was telling God about him last night at my window on the stairs—and it seemed as if God said to me that he was coming very soon now. I shouldn't wonder if he came next week!"
The keeper entered the cottage at this moment, and Milly jumped off her seat at once.
"I'm afraid it's time for me to be going back. Nurse said I was to be in at four. Are you going to take me, Maxwell?"
"Don't I always see you safe and sound up at the house?" Maxwell said good-humoredly, "and do you know it has struck four ten minutes ago? When you and my old woman get together to have a crack, as the saying is, you don't know how time passes. We shall have to run for it."
Milly was being rapidly covered up in a thick plaid by Mrs. Maxwell.
"There now, my dearie, good-bye till next I see you, and don't be doleful in that big house by yourself. Your uncle will soon be well, and nurse will be better able to see after you. I don't know what all those servants are after that they can't amuse you a bit."
"Nurse doesn't like me ever to go near the servants' hall," said Milly; "I promised her I wouldn't. Sarah stays in the nursery with me, but she runs away downstairs pretty often. Good-bye, Mrs. Maxwell."
It was getting dark. Maxwell soon had the child in his strong arms, and was striding along at a great pace, when passing a rather dark corner, a man suddenly sprang out of the bushes and took to his heels.
Maxwell shouted out wrathfully: "Let me see you in here again, and it will be the worse for you, you scoundrel!"
"Oh, Maxwell," cried Milly, "who is it?"
"One of them skulking poachers—they're always in here after the rabbits. If I hadn't a-had you to look after and had my thick stick I would a-been after him."
"But you wouldn't have hurt him?"
"I should have taught him a lesson, that I should!"
"But, Maxwell, you mustn't, really! Only think, he might be—Tommy coming home! You couldn't see who it was, could you? It would be dreadful if you chased away Tommy."
"No fear o' that," Maxwell said in a quieter tone. "My own son wouldn't skulk along like that. He was a ragged vagabond, that's what he was."
"Prodigal sons are nearly always ragged. He might have been some one's prodigal son, Maxwell."
"He was just a poacher, my dear, and I think I know the chap. He's staying at the Blue Dragon, and has been a-watching this place for some time."
"Perhaps he is one of God's prodigal sons," said Milly softly, "like Jack was."
To this Maxwell made no reply, but when he set her down in the brightly-lighted hall a little later, he said,—
"Don't you fret about our Tommy. I should know him fast enough. He wouldn't run from his own father."
And Milly went in, and that night added another petition to her prayers:—
"And please God, if the man who ran away from Maxwell is a prodigal son, bring him back to his father for Jesus' sake. Amen."
CROSS-EXAMINATION.
CROSS-EXAMINATION.
"Nurse, where is Miss Millicent? I haven't seen her for days. Fetch her in here this afternoon, and you go and get a little fresh air; I am well enough to be left alone now."
Sir Edward's tone was impatient. He was getting to the convalescent stage, and nurse found him a most trying patient. Nothing would please him, and he wearied both himself and her with his perpetual complaints.
"I thought she would only worry you, sir. She has been asking me every day to come in and see you. I will fetch her at once."
Milly shortly appeared in a clean pinafore, her little face radiant with smiles. As she climbed up into the chair by the bedside and gently stroked the hand that was given her, she said with sparkling eyes,—
"Nurse says I may stay here all alone with you, uncle; won't that be lovely? May I give you your medicines, and be your nurse?"
"I can't promise that, but you may sit there and talk to me."
"What shall I talk about?"
"Anything you like. You never seem to be at a loss for conversation."
Milly considered for a moment.
"I've had so few people to talk to lately, you see; I generally talk most to Fritz. He understands, I'm sure, but he doesn't talk back. When will you be quite well again, uncle?"
"Not this side of Christmas, I'm afraid."
"Oh dear, what a long time! But I'm very glad God has made you better. Nurse said it was a mercy you hadn't broken your neck. Do you know, uncle, I saw such a sad sight yesterday morning. I was down in the fir plantation with Fritz, and we came upon a dear little rabbit caught in a steel trap. Maxwell said a poacher had put it there, and he was very angry. The rabbit was quite dead, and his two hind legs were broken. Wasn't it dreadful? What is a poacher, uncle?"
"A thief—a man that steals game that isn't his."
"Maxwell says there are lots of poachers about. I'm so afraid he will think Tommy is one when he comes back. I do hope he will be careful, because if it's dark he might make a mistake. Wouldn't it be dreadful if he hurt his own prodigal son! And I expect Tommy will look very like a poacher. He is sure to have ragged, dirty clothes. If I was——" Here Milly paused, and gazed dreamily in front of her for some minutes in silence.
"Well?" inquired Sir Edward, looking at his little niece with interest as she sat in her big chair, her elbows supported by her knees, and her chin resting in her hands, "are you going into a brown study?"
"I was just thinking if I was a prodigal son—I mean a real one, not just playing at it, as I do—I would rather be one of God's prodigal sons, than belonging to any one else."
"Why?"
"Because I would know for certain He would meet me and take me back. Nurse told me she had a cousin who ran away and made himself a soldier, and when he was sorry and wanted to come home, his father shut the door in his face, and wouldn't let him in. And then there's Tommy, I can't help s'posing that his father mightn't know him. But God can't make mistakes. It must be lovely just to run right into God's arms, and hear Him saying,'Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him.'I should love to have Him say that to me."
Milly's little face glowed with pleasure at the thought, and she turned her expressive eyes toward her uncle, who lay with knitted brows listening to her.
"And supposing if God would not receive you; supposing you had stayed away so long, and had refused to listen to His voice when He called, and then when you did want to come back, you felt it would be too late, what would you do then?"
Milly smiled.
"Why, uncle, it would be never too late for God, would it? Maxwell said he would be glad to see Tommy if he came back in the middle of the night, and God would never turn one of his prodigal sons away. He loves them so that he sent Jesus to die for them. He would never say He couldn't have them back again."
Sir Edward said no more, and after another pause the child went on.
"I was asking Mrs. Maxwell the other day if she had some best clothes for Tommy when he came home, and she took me upstairs into his little room, and opened a long drawer, and told me to look inside. And there were his best Sunday coat and waistcoat and trousers, and a silk handkerchief with lavender in it, and a necktie with yellow and red stripes, and she told me they had been there for nine years, and she shakes them out and brushes them every Saturday. He didn't run away in his best clothes, you know; he left them behind. So they're quite ready for him. The only thing Mrs. Maxwell hasn't got is the ring."
"The what?" inquired Sir Edward, amused.
"The ring," Milly repeated earnestly. "Maxwell will have to say, 'Put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet.' Mrs. Maxwell has got a pair of carpet slippers. I couldn't bear her not having any shoes ready for him, so we looked about and found a pair that are just too small for Maxwell, and I put them in the drawer my own self. Mrs. Maxwell says he won't want a ring, and that she thinks the Bible people dressed differently, and she said Tommy was a poor man's son: it wasn't as if he was rich. But I don't know; I don't like to think we have no ring for him. I suppose you haven't one, uncle, that you would like to give him?"
Sir Edward put his head back on his cushions and laughed aloud. Then, noting Milly's troubled face, he said:
"Wait till Tommy comes back, little woman, and then it will be time enough to see about his ring, though I quite agree with his mother that it would be most unfitting."
"You have had the picture I gave you taken away, uncle," said Milly presently, her quick eyes roving round the room. "Ah! you've had it hung up on the wall. That's nice there. You can see it from your bed. Don't you like looking at it? Doesn't it make you feel happy?"
"I can't say it does," replied Sir Edward, glancing at the picture in question. "Why ought it to make me feel happy?"
"Oh, it's so nice to think he is just getting home after being away so long. I wonder if he was a great time walking back. How long do you think it takes one of God's prodigal sons to get back to Him, uncle?"
"I should say a very long time, indeed," said Sir Edward, slowly.
"But how long? Two days, or six hours, or a week?"
"It would depend perhaps on how long they had been away from Him."
"It's rather hard to understand," said Milly, wrinkling her little brow perplexedly, "because God is everywhere, isn't He? and I should have thought He would have been close by them all the time. I was asking nurse about it, and she said that God was near them, only they wouldn't have anything to say to Him, and did bad things and shut the Lord Jesus out of their heart, and let Satan in, and then God had to leave them till they said they said they were sorry. I suppose directly they say: 'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son,' then God just folds them in His arms and forgives them and takes them back again; isn't that it?"
"Look here, I think we have had enough of this subject. Talk about something else."
Sir Edward's tone was irritable. Milly's ready tongue obeyed.
"Nurse says it's so cold to-day that she thinks it will snow. Do you think it will? It is quite smoky by the river; nurse says it is a fog. I wondered where it all came from. Do you think it might be God's breath, uncle?"
As she was chatting on, suddenly there came a sharp knock at the door, and a visitor appeared.
"Thought I'd look you up, for I heard you were on the sick list. Good gracious! you have been pretty bad, haven't you? Will you put me up for a night or two? I expect you want a little cheerful company."
Talking volubly, Major Lovell—for it was he—came forward and looked with real concern on Sir Edward's altered face.
"I'm very glad to see you," said the latter, heartily, holding out his hand. "Come and stay for as long as you like. I'm sick to death of my own society."
"And is this the small party that arrived so unexpectedly when I was here before?" inquired Major Lovell, looking down at Milly, who still sat in the big chair, regarding the new-comer with her large brown eyes.
"Yes," said Sir Edward, a faint smile hovering about his lips as he remembered his horror of her advent; "she is taking charge of me this afternoon."
Milly held out her little hand with all the grace of a duchess.
"I remember you," she said; "you were one of the gentlemen that laughed at me."
"I don't think I could have been guilty of such rudeness, surely."
"Now, I think you may run away," Sir Edward said, "and tell nurse I will ring when I want her."
Milly obeyed, and confided to nurse that she hoped the "new gentleman" would not keep her away from her uncle. "For do you know, nurse, I like Uncle Edward so much better when he is in bed. He looks so sad, and speaks so softly. I wish I could sit with him every day."
Major Lovell was a distant cousin of Sir Edward, and there existed a warm friendship between them. The very brightness of his tone seemed to do the invalid good, and Milly was quite delighted to find that her uncle's visitor not only listened with interest to the account of her favorite games and pastimes, but insisted upon joining her in them, and the walls of the quiet old house rang again with merry mirth and laughter such as they had not known for years.
Upstairs in the sick room Major Lovell proved a wonderfully patient and skillful nurse; but there were times when all his bright cheeriness could not smooth the furrows in the invalid's brow, or take away the fretfulness of tone.
One morning Major Lovell came down from an interview with him with a puzzled expression of face. Catching sight of Milly in the hall, equipped in hat and jacket, he asked,—
"Are you going out with nurse?"
"No, nurse is busy—just by my own self, in the avenue with Fritz. Do come with me."
The major consented, but with a graver face than usual, and then suddenly, very full of his own thoughts, said to the child,—
"I believe your uncle has something on his mind. It strikes me from different things he has let drop that he is turning pious."
"What is pious?" inquired Milly, instantly.
"What is it? A pious person thinks every one wicked but themselves, and condemns everybody and everything all round them. They are most objectionable people, little woman, so mind you never take up that line, and the worst of it is that they're so satisfied with their own goodness, that you can't crush them, try as much as you may."
"And is Uncle Edward going to be like them?" asked the child, with a perplexed face.
"I devoutly hope not. I shall do all in my power to prevent it."
"What do pious people do?" questioned Milly.
"Do! They give tracts away and sing hymns, and pull long faces over very well-bound Bibles."
"I like singing hymns," asserted Milly, very emphatically; "everybody sings hymns to God, don't they? I listen to the birds, sometimes, and wish I could sing like them; and the trees sing, and the bees and flies. Everything seems to sing out of doors in the summer time, but they've nearly all dropped asleep now till next year. What hymns do you sing, Major Lovell?"
"Bless the child! what do you take me for?" and the major laughed heartily as he spoke; then, with a twinkle in his eye, he went on gravely,—
"I shall begin to think that you are pious if you don't take care. What else do you do besides sing hymns?"
"I have a Bible," said Milly, solemnly, "and I just love it."
"And what makes you love such a dry book as the Bible? You can't understand a word of it."
"Oh, I can, Major Lovell, it's beautiful. I love nurse to read and read it to me. It tells about Jesus, you know, and I love Jesus, and He loves me. And it has such nice stories in it."
Major Lovell gave a long, low whistle.
"Ah!" he said, shaking his head comically at the little figure walking by his side, "I'm very much afraid you may be at the bottom of it all. Do you read the Bible to your uncle? Do you tell him that he has been wasting his life and not fulfilling the end for which he was created, in fact, that he is a wicked sinner? For that has been the substance of his talk with me this morning!"
"Uncle Edward is a very good man," Milly replied, warmly. "I don't know what you mean, Major Lovell; don't you read the Bible?"
"What will you think of me if I tell you I don't?"
"Perhaps you know it all by heart? I expect that is why."
"I rather think I don't. You must not begin to catechise me too severely. Who has brought you up in this pious fashion?"
"I'm not pious. You said they were horrid people. But I thought all the grown-up people read the Bible, except people like Jack."
"Who is Jack?"
"He was a prodigal son, one of God's prodigal sons."
"And what are they, may I ask?"
Milly did not answer for a minute, then she stopped short, and said very solemnly, raising her large dark eyes to the major's face,—
"I wonder if you're a prodigal son. Uncle Edward said there were some rich ones. Have you run away from God, Major Lovell?"
"Oh, come now," said the major, pinching her cheek good-naturedly; "I didn't bargain for this when I came out with you. You must keep your sermons for some one else. Come along to the stables with me, and I will give you a ride."
In an instant Milly's gravity disappeared, and a little time afterwards she was laughing gleefully as she was being trotted round the stable-yard on a large bay mare; but she said to her nurse when she came in,—
"Major Lovell is very nice, but very funny, and I can't always understand his talk, he says such difficult things."