They were sitting in the study the next afternoon, the child upon his knee, when Sir Edward said suddenly,—
"Do you know that I have received a letter to-day about you?"
"Who from?" asked Milly, with interest.
"From my sister, your aunt, in Australia. I wrote to her when you came, and she wants to have you out there, and bring you up among her own children. She says a friend of hers will take charge of you and take you to her next month. I must talk to nurse about it."
The little hands clutched hold of his coat sleeve tightly, but not a word did Milly say. Sir Edward noted a slight quivering of the lips, and a piteous gleam in the soft brown eyes. He waited in silence for a moment, then said cheerfully,—
"Won't you be glad to have a lot of boys and girls to play with, instead of staying here with a lonely old man?"
Still the child said nothing; but suddenly down went the curly head upon his arm, and the tears came thick and fast.
Sir Edward raised the little face to his,—
"We must not have tears on Christmas Day," he said. "What is the matter, don't you want to go?"
"I suppose I must," sobbed Milly. "Ford told nurse the day I came that you hated children. I've always been thinking of it, but you have been so kind to me that I thought perhaps he had made a little mistake. Miss Kent didn't want me, and now you don't want me, and perhaps my aunt won't want me when I get there. I wish God wanted me, but I'm afraid He doesn't. Nurse says she thinks He wants me to work for Him when I grow up. I think—I think I'm rather like the little kitten yesterday, that nobody was sorry for when she died. You said there were plenty more kittens, didn't you?"