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.