"Not born."
"But I must have been somewhere," and Milly's active little brain now started another train of thought, until she got fairly bewildered.
"I expect I was fast asleep in God's arms," she said at length, with knitted brows; "only, of course, I don't remember," and having settled that point to her satisfaction, she continued her story:
"Mrs. Maxwell's 'probable son' is called Tommy. He ran away when he was seventeen because he didn't like the blacksmith's shop. Mrs. Maxwell and I cried about him. He had such curly hair, and stood six feet in his stockings, and he was a beautiful baby when he was little, and had croup and—and confusions, and didn't come to for four hours; but he would run away, though he laid the fire and put sticks on it and drew the water for Mrs. Maxwell before he went. And Mrs. Maxwell says he may be a soldier or a sailor now for all she knows, and he may be drownded dead, or run over, or have both his legs shot to pieces, or he may be in India with the blacks; but I told her he was very likely taking care of some pigs somewhere, and she got happy a little bit then, and we dried our tears, and she gave me some peppermint to suck. Isn't it a wonderful story, uncle?"
"Very wonderful," was the response.
"Well, we were in the middle of talking when Maxwell came in, so we hushed, because Mrs. Maxwell said, 'It makes my man so sad'; but, do you know, when Maxwell was bringing me home through the wood he asked me what we had been talking about, and he said he knew it was about the boy because he could see it in Mrs. Maxwell's eye. And then I asked him if he would run and kiss Tommy when he came back, and if he would make a feast; and he said he would do anything to get him home again."
Milly paused, then said wistfully,—
"I wish I had a father, Uncle Edward. You see, nurse does for a mother, but fathers are so fond of their children, aren't they?"
"It does not always follow that they are," Sir Edward replied.
"The probable son's father loved him, and Maxwell loves Tommy, and then there was David, you know, who really had a wicked son, with long hair—I forget his name—and he cried dreadful when he was dead. I sometimes tell God about it when I'm in bed, and then He—He just seems to put His arms round me and send me off to sleep; at least, I think He does. Nurse says God likes me to call Him my Father, but of course that isn't quite the same as having a father I can see. Maxwell is a very nice father, I think. I told him I would pray for Tommy every night when I go to bed, and then I told him that God had lots of probable sons, too—the clergyman said so on Sunday, didn't he?—people who have run away from Him. I've been asking God to make them come back. I hope He will let me know when they do. Do you know any one who has run away from God, uncle?"