Suddenly, as she came to an opening in the trees, she saw, in the distance, the light shining out from the library windows of Beechwood; and the idea crossed her brain that she would go there, and if Judge Howell turned her off, as he did before, she’d go to Tiger’s kennel and sleep with him. Mildred’s impulses were usually acted upon, and she was soon traversing the road to Beechwood, feeling with each step that she was drawing nearer to her home.
“Widow Simms says I have a right here,” she thought, as she passed silently through the gate. “And I almost believe so, too. Any way, I mean to tell him I’ve come to stay;” and, without a moment’s hesitation, the courageous child opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
Judge Howell sat in his pleasant library, trying to interest himself in a book, but a vague feeling of loneliness oppressed him, and as often as he read one page, he turned backward to see what had gone before.
“It’s of no use,” he said, at last; “I’m not in a reading mood;” and closing his eyes, he leaned back in his armchair, and thought of much which had come to him during the years gone by,—thought first of his gentle wife,—then of his beautiful daughter,—and then of Richard, whom he had cursed in that very room. Where was he now? Were the waters of the Southern seas chanting wild music over his ocean bed? Did the burning sun of Bengal look down upon his grave?—or would he come back again some day, and from his father’s lips hear that the old man was sorry for the harsh words that he had spoken? Then, by some sudden transition of thought, he remembered the night of the storm, and the infant left at his door. He had never been sorry for casting it off, he said, and yet, had he kept her,—were she with him this wintry night, he might not be so dreary sitting alone.
“There they go!” said a childish voice, and as his gold-bowed specs fell to the floor, the Judge started up, and lo, there upon a stool, her bonnet and bundle on a chair, and her hands folded demurely upon her lap, sat the veritable object of his thoughts, even little Mildred.
Through the half-closed door she had glided so noiselessly as not to disturb his reverie, and sitting down upon the stool at his feet, had warmed her hands by the blazing fire, removed her hood, smoothed back her hair, and then watched breathlessly the slow descent of the specs from the nose of the Judge, who, she fancied, was sleeping. Lower, and lower, and lower they came, and when at last they dropped, she involuntarily uttered the exclamation which roused the Judge to a knowledge of her presence.
“What the deuce,—how did you get in, and what are you here for?” asked the Judge, feeling, in spite of himself, a secret satisfaction in having her there, and knowing that he was no longer alone.
Fixing her clear, brown eyes upon him, Mildred answered:
“I walked in, and I’ve come to stay.”
“The plague you have,” returned the Judge, vastly amused at the quiet decision with which she spoke. “Come to stay, hey? But suppose I won’t let you, what then?”