Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
Bob ran to it, and saw that a child was securely lashed
to it.
MILLY'S ERRAND;
OR,
SAVED TO SAVE.
BY
EMMA LESLIE
PHILADELPHIA:
ALFRED MARTIEN
1214 CHESTNUT STREET.
1873.
————————————————————————
Alfred Martien,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER.
CONTENTS.
[CHAPTER III. THE COTTAGE HOME]
[CHAPTER IV. THE WIDOW'S DEATH]
[CHAPTER VI. REST FOR THE WEARY]
[CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS]
[CHAPTER VIII. THE DOCTOR'S STORY]
[CHAPTER X. "BLESSED ARE THE MEEK."]
MILLY'S ERRAND;
OR,
Saved to Save.
[CHAPTER I.]
THE BROTHERS.
"WE shall have stormy weather, I am thinking, before long." The speaker was an old sailor, and as he spoke, he raised his spy-glass again to take another look at the distant horizon. "It's coming, lads," he said, addressing two stout grown boys, who had just come up with a donkey-cart to gather the sea-weed that lay in heaps on the sandy shore.
The elder of the two looked out upon the sea as the old man spoke. "There's a ship in the offing over there, ain't there?" he said, pointing to a dim speck in the distance.
"Yes; I, can't make much of her yet, but she'd better tack for the harbor pretty soon, or she won't get in, and once on these rocks here, it'll be all up with her."
It was a dangerous part of the coast; and as the old man resumed his professional walk, he cast another anxious glance towards the vessel, and then at the signs of the weather, which every moment became more threatening.
The boys went on gathering the sea-weed, working most industriously.
Presently the younger one stopped to rest on his hooked stick for a minute or two. "What heaps of money that old doctor must have," he said, looking at the cart, and thinking of what had been promised them for a dozen loads of the sea-weed.
"He ain't old, I tell you," said his brother, likewise stopping to rest for a minute or two, for it was hard work dragging up the heaps of heavy, wet sea-weed. "Mother says he ain't more 'n thirty, or forty at the most."
"Well, he looks old, anyway; his hair's gray, and his face is always puckered up."
"Yes, and nobody can tell what's the matter with him, and nobody dares to go near him."
"It's a pity he ain't poor, and got to work for a poor old mother like we have, Jack." And the younger boy sighed as he thought of the miserable little hovel where his mother lay bedridden with rheumatics.
"Yes, or else that he'd look after the people about, and do some good with his money. They say he's the richest and most miserable man for miles around. But look here, if we stand talking about Dr. Mansfield like this, we shall never get the sea-weed into his garden, and then mother won't get her new blanket."
And the two set to work again at once. They were fisher-boys, but gathered sea-weed at odd times when not employed with their nets. Dr. Mansfield's gardener had ordered a dozen loads, promising to pay them liberally for it; and it was this that had led them to speak of the eccentric doctor himself.
All the village talked about him, more or less, for he was a puzzle to everybody, and various were the rumors afloat concerning him. The one most generally received and believed in was, that he had either accidentally, or in the heat of passion, killed a brother or cousin, or some near relative, and that although the crime could not be proved against him, he knew he was guilty, and at times suffered agonies of remorse in consequence.
The truth of this was doubted by some, but none could dispute that the doctor was a most wretched man, a misery to himself, and often to every one about him. For days and often nights were passed when no one dared to go near him, when the ceaseless tramp of his footsteps up and down was only interrupted by the agonizing groans that broke from his lips.
The boys had heard of this, and probably were thinking of it just now, for the younger paused again in his work; after a minute of two he said, "The doctor's got one of his bad turns again, Jack."
"How do you know that?" asked his brother somewhat sharply, for, like some other elder brothers, Jack was a little jealous of Bob receiving any information except through him.
"I heard one of the servants tell the gardener, he was nearly raving this morning, and that no one dared go near him."
"But I would go," said Jack boldly.
"You'd get killed if you did," said Bob; "they say he's in such an awful passion, that he's mad nearly if any one goes near his room."
"Well, I don't care; I'd go and ask him what was the matter—whether he was ill, or something like that."
Bob shook his head, and evidently thought it was a good thing his brother could not put his dangerous experiment into execution. "I shouldn't like to do that," he said, speaking very slow and thoughtfully; "but if I could do anything that would help him, or do him good, I'd like to do it, for I don't suppose he will enjoy his beautiful garden half so much as we do getting this sea-weed for it."
"Enjoy it? I don't know so much about enjoying it," said Jack; "we've got to do it, and the sooner it's done the better, for we shall have a squall before long, I know."
"Never mind, it'll only blow up the more weed for to-morrow," said Bob, who always took a cheerful view of things.
"I don't know so much about that," returned his brother, again looking seawards. "That vessel don't seem to be making much headway, and she'll stand no chance if the storm comes on before she reaches the harbor, and it will come pretty soon," he added, as the wind came sweeping over the sea in fitful sobs and gusts.
The shades of evening had gathered in by the time their cart was full, and with a last look at the laboring vessel, the boys turned homewards.
"Mother, there's a fine big ship in the offing, and if she don't make the harbor pretty soon, she'll be on the rocks before morning," said Jack, as he pushed open the door of their little cottage.
The old woman's face brightened at the sight of her boys, but it grew anxious as she heard these words. "God grant the storm may keep off then a few hours longer," she said, fervently, "for it is awful to think of—awful to listen to the wild ravings of the wind, and have to lie here helpless, while poor souls are being lost for want of help. And yet, what am I saying? One would think I was more merciful than God, or that He couldn't help them. Bob, find my favorite text. I know it, lad, but I like to put my finger on it, and see it's there, ever since your father was drowned in a storm."
Bob did as his mother desired him as soon as his brother had struck a light. He knew the verse to which his mother referred, and read slowly and solemnly,—
"'Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance.'"
"Yes, the hollow of His hand, that's it," murmured the old woman. "They're in the hollow of His hand still, though they be on the raging sea, and He'll care for and guide each one of 'em, though we can't see His hand, and it seems all left to chance."
The boys were used to these little bits of talk, addressed half to them and half to herself, and went on with their work of preparing the frugal supper, only stopping now and then to listen to the wind, which sometimes threatened to overturn their little dwelling in its fury.
"I wish I could do something for that ship out there," said Bob, as he finished his supper.
"An' if it was only to save one from drowning, it 'ud do some good," said Jack.
"Well, boys, come and kneel down here, and pray for me first, and then go and see if there's anything doing, or whether she's got into the harbor," said the widow.
And as she spoke, she turned the pages of the Bible, and read the story of the Lord being in the tempest asleep, and the affright of the disciples at their danger, and then His wondrous words, "Peace, be still," which at once produced a great calm.
The boys arose from their knees, and knew, although no word had been spoken, that for them and for those on the vessel many heartfelt prayers would ascend from their mother's heart. They opened the cottage door and went out, but soon returned with the intelligence that it was hoped she would gain the harbor yet, and so, feeling very tired, they both went to bed.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE LITTLE WAIF.
JACK and his brother were soon fast asleep, in spite of the noise made by the wind. But the widow lay listening to its wild roar, and thinking of that night when her husband was out in just such a storm as this, that came on so suddenly that before he could reach the shore his little fishing boat was dashed on the fatal rocks, and he and three others perished in the eddying waves.
As the hours went on, the storm increased in violence, while ever and anon between the lulls of the tempest the guns of a vessel in distress could be plainly heard. At the earliest dawn, all the men in the village were down upon the beach; some had been there all night watching the ineffectual effort of the splendid vessel to gain the harbor. It was all in vain, she was drifting fast to her doom on the fatal reef of hidden rocks that made this coast so dangerous.
To describe the scene of agonizing excitement when she struck, would be impossible. All hope was at an end then, and the passengers who crowded her deck knew it. The storm, however, had begun to abate, and, as soon as it was possible, boats put off from the shore to rescue the helpless crew and passengers. But before half of them could be brought off, the vessel had begun to break up.
Our two fisher-lads were among the earliest arrivals at the exciting scene, and they had promised to run back with intelligence to their mother.
"Now, Bob, you just run and tell mother how she is," said Jack, after they had stood looking at the vessel for a minute or two; "and don't come down here again. Stop up at Sandy Cove and watch; you can slip back to mother then, and tell her how it's going on."
Bob did not much like the post assigned him, to be a lonely watcher in a sheltered nook, instead of in the midst of the excitement. But when his mother repeated the same request, he did not think of returning to his elder brother. He was a meek, gentle lad, although a fisher-boy, and quite accustomed to obey his mother, although he helped to support her, and so he quietly took up his lonely position to watch the doomed vessel.
She had struck during the time he had been running home, and when he saw the boats put off shortly afterwards, it was a sore trial to him to stay where he was, in obedience to his mother's wishes, instead of remaining on the scene of action. But he did stay, watching with eager interest the progress made by the boats, and occasionally shouting cheering words to the rowers, as though the din of wind and waves would carry them to the men.
Presently, as we have said, the vessel began to break up. One and another was washed from the crowded deck into the eddying waves, some flinging themselves in with life-preservers around them, and others lashing themselves to spars, hoping that these would keep them above water. One of these was quickly carried beyond the rocks and floated towards where Bob was standing. He did not notice it at first, but as it gradually drifted nearer, he saw that something was lashed to it. It came nearer each moment, and, as it came on, all the boy's interest centred in that one remnant of the wreck, and he prepared to plunge in and drag it to the shore. But there was no occasion for this. A wave caught it as he was dashing into the surf, and, whirling it past him, dashed it high up on the sandy beach. Bob ran to it instantly, and then saw that a child was securely lashed to it, but, to all appearance, dead as the spar itself.
To take out his knife, however, and cut the cords that bound the little creature was the work of a moment; and then taking it in his arms, with the long fair hair dripping over his shoulders, he ran with all his speed up the winding path towards home. But he halted before he had gone far. What could his mother do for the child, and she unable to turn herself in bed? And yet everybody else was down at the other part of the beach.
Suddenly he remembered Dr. Mansfield's house stood close by, and without a second thought about the matter, he ran there.
"I want the doctor!" he panted, when the startled housekeeper opened the door in answer to his imperious ring.
The woman glanced at the child and then at him. "Dr. Mansfield sees nobody, you know that," she said sternly. "You must take the child somewhere else."
But at this moment Bob felt, or fancied he felt, a faint fluttering in the little frame, while a door hastily opened on the opposite side of the hall revealed the bent figure of the doctor. Bob knew him in a moment, although he had not seen him above twice in his life, and dashing past the astonished housekeeper, he entered the room before she could prevent it.
"It ain't dead, doctor!" gasped Bob, holding out the still dripping child.
The doctor stepped back a pace or two and stared at the intruder with dilating eyes, bringing to the boy's recollection a rumor lately gone abroad that the doctor was out of his mind. "Why, you are the boy that came to my gardener yesterday with the sea-weed?" he said.
Bob nodded.
"Good. I like you, for you didn't get into a passion when the man swore so. I'll look at your baby." And he took the little creature from Bob as he spoke.
It was to all appearance dead, but the skilled hand of the physician detected a faint fluttering at the heart, and the discovery seemed to arouse him in a moment from the torpor and half insanity of his manner. Ringing the bell, he ordered blankets to be brought, and then proceeded to use other restoratives which he had close at hand.
For some time, however, it seemed that all their efforts were in vain, and nearly an hour passed before there were any signs of life, but at last there came a little faintly drawn breath, and the doctor redoubled his exertions to fan the faint spark of life into a flame again.
The effect of these exertions was scarcely less marked upon himself than upon the child, and Bob could only stare in blank amazement when he saw the change in the gloomy, misanthropic doctor. Brisk, active, energetic, decided, his bowed form stood erect, and the fire in his dark eyes flashed back a denial of anything like insanity.
And when at last, the heavy blue eyes of the little girl slowly opened, a smile broke over all the face of her deliverer. It was the first time he had been known to smile for ten years.
"Now, boy," he said, addressing Bob, "your baby will live, but you had better leave her here a bit, till she gets well."
"Yes, sir," answered the boy, pulling at his hair, but still staring in amazement at the doctor, and the wonderful transformation that had passed over him within the last hour.
"You can come and take her in a day or two, when she gets well," said the housekeeper as he was leaving, and the doctor nodded his acquiescence in his housekeeper's suggestion.
Bob ran to tell his mother of his adventure, and from her heard that most of the passengers and crew had been saved, but that the captain of the vessel had been washed overboard and drowned.
A month passed; the rescued passengers and crew had all departed from the lonely fishing village—all but the little waif, ill at Dr. Mansfield's. No one had come to claim her, and no one could tell to whom she belonged; the uncertainty which for some time hung over her, as to whether she would live or die, made this of secondary importance.
But soon after the last of the passengers had departed, an improvement took place in the child, the fever left her, and she was able to look around and notice her strange nurses. And to her, they did appear very strange, for she turned from every one but the doctor, refusing to make friends with any but him. She appeared to be about two years old, and could just lisp two words, "Milly" and "papa." By the former she meant herself, and the latter she applied to Dr. Mansfield. There was a little odd jargon of some foreign language that she babbled sometimes, but nothing of her name or parentage could be discovered from it.
[CHAPTER III.]
THE COTTAGE HOME.
IT was some weeks before little Milly could do more than prattle in a listless, feeble sort of way. And of course, the unwonted presence of a child there made a good deal of extra work in the house, but not nearly so much as when she became able to run about and get into mischief, for she soon showed a wonderful genius in this particular, and would not be kept from it without exhibiting a most violent temper.
The doctor laughed at these outbursts when he happened to be in a good humor himself. But the housekeeper and servants were not at all disposed to take it so complacently, and they resolved that the next time the doctor shut himself up in his room to indulge his gloomy seclusion, little Milly should be sent away.
It was not long before an opportunity presented itself. One morning the doctor failed to make his appearance as usual, and the little girl was more tiresome than ever.
"I will not put up with it any longer, that I won't!" exclaimed the angry housekeeper, when Milly broke the second cup and saucer that had been placed before her. "I don't see why we should take the child in because the sea happened to wash her up near here; this is not the parish poorhouse."
And so a servant was dispatched to the widow's cottage to bring Bob at once.
The boy thought that perhaps more sea-weed was required, and so without any delay, he hurried up to the house.
"I want you to take that child home; the doctor can't be bothered with her any longer," said the housekeeper, as soon as Bob made his appearance.
Poor Bob scratched his head in perplexity. "I'll tell mother, ma'am," he said, though what they should do with this additional burden, he was at a loss to know.
He had begun to hope that the doctor would keep her, if no one came forward to claim her, although she was always spoken of as "Bob's baby" by all who knew the circumstances of her rescue.
"You'd better take her with you," said the housekeeper. "The doctor has one of his bad attacks coming on this morning, and she's in the way here. You can carry her home, can't you?"
"Yes, ma'am, I can carry her. But I was thinking what we should do with her," said Bob, still in perplexity.
"Well, if you like to keep her, I'll send her some clothes now and then. And you can come here for the broken victuals; there's a good deal sometimes, and it would help you a bit, I dare say."
"Yes, ma'am it would," said Bob.
"But, mind, I don't say you are to keep her," went on the housekeeper. "If I were your mother, I should send her to the workhouse. It would be the best place, I think, for Dr. Mansfield can't be bothered with her again, and so you must not bring her here or let him see her any more."
"I shouldn't like her to go to the workhouse," said Bob, gently stroking the fair hair of the little girl as she toddled into the room.
He held out his arms as he spoke, and the child went to him, but scowled fiercely at the housekeeper when she attempted to touch her.
"She's got a temper of her own, I can tell you," said one of the servants, as she pinned a shawl around Milly's shoulders and tied on a quaint-looking little bonnet that had been made for her by one of them. "You'd better make up your mind to send her to the workhouse at once."
"I'll tell mother what you say, ma'am," said' Bob deferentially, for he stood in awe of the grand-looking servants.
But he devoutly hoped his mother would not send her there, and resolved to work harder than ever himself in order to keep her with them.
On his way home, Jack met him, all impatience to know why he had been sent for. When he saw Milly in his arms, he burst into a loud laugh. "Halloo, Bob, have you got a place as nurse-maid up there?" he shouted.
Bob tried to laugh too, but it was almost a failure, for he was feeling very troubled about the child. "If I'm to be a nurse, I shall have to do it at home, not up there," he said.
"What do you mean? What are you going to do with that child, then?" asked Jack, more quietly.
"Take her home," said Bob.
And then he explained to his brother what Dr. Mansfield's housekeeper had said to him.
Jack gave a prolonged whistle. "I don't see how we shall manage that at all," he said.
"Well, I shall try and work harder," said Bob, "so that we may keep her."
"I'll help you in that," replied his brother. "But to have a little thing like this with nobody to look after her but us rough chaps seems queer."
They did not speak again until they reached home, when Jack, taking Milly from his brother's arms, carried her in and placed her on the bed beside his mother.
"She's to be ours now, mother. The doctor won't keep her any longer," said Jack, smoothing the child's fair hair, and looking at the lovely blue eyes, that were opened widely now in wondering surprise at the strange faces and still stranger place.
The widow looked as puzzled as Bob had done for a minute or two, but at length, to the great relief of the boys she said, "The Lord has sent her, and I doubt not but He'll provide for her. May be He has some work for her to do here, and so we'll just do the best we can for her."
It was an odd companionship—the bedridden widow and two rough lads for a little delicate girl. But Bob grew to be almost as gentle as a girl himself in attending to her wants—more gentle and yielding than was altogether good for the young lady, who soon ruled with despotic sway all the little household, and resented the smallest resistance to her wishes.
As the weeks and months went on, however, the widow noticed, with a growing anxiety, that Milly's uncontrolled temper was fast gaining the mastery of her. And at length, a simple incident convinced her that she must set about the work of correcting and subduing it without delay.
Bob frequently took the child down to the shore when he could spare the time, and helped her to gather shells and bits of rubbish cast up by the sea, but he had to keep a close watch over her lest she should get into danger, an interference Milly often resented. But one day her rescue seemed to make her more angry than ever; she kicked and struggled to get free from the protecting arms, and at last made a desperate plunge at Bob's face with the sharp edge of an oyster-shell that she happened to have in her hand. The blow might not have been so severe, but the boy happened to bend his head forward at the moment, and the shell entered his cheek, inflicting quite a deep wound.
Jack saw his brother's face covered with blood, and took the child from his arms, who ceased her kicking and struggling the moment she saw the mischief she had done.
"Run home as fast as you can, Bob, and get mother to tie it up," said Jack, seating Milly on the ground.
"Let me go, let me go!" cried Milly, running after Bob. "Me hurt poor Bob, let me kiss him and make him well."
And she escaped from Jack's detaining hold, and ran after his brother. Bob stopped and lifted her up in his arms, but the sight of the blood seemed to horrify her, and she burst into tears.
"Poor Bob! Poor Bob!" she said caressingly.
And, at the sight of her distress, the big, rough boy forgot the pain that had been inflicted by that little fat chubby hand, and only thought of soothing her.
"Don't be frightened, mother, it ain't much more than a scratch," said Bob lightly, as he entered the cottage, and saw his mother start forward in alarm.
"How did it happen? What have you done?" asked the widow, in a tone of alarm.
"Milly did it; Milly hurt Bob," said the little girl, running forward to the bed.
"Did she?" asked the widow.
The boy nodded. "I was bringing her away from the rocks, and she did not want to come," he said; "and she had an oyster-shell in her hand."
"And struck you with it? O, naughty girl, naughty Milly, to get angry and hurt poor Bob!" said the widow, speaking severely.
"Milly kiss it and make it well," said the child, half penitently, half defiantly.
Her kisses had been received as a recompense for all sorts of misdemeanors before, and she thought they would be quite enough now, and was evidently surprised when the widow said,—
"No; Milly's kisses won't make it well. Poor Bob is hurt, and Milly hurt him."
But Milly seemed determined to try the efficacy of kissing, and Bob stooped to let her try.
"Won't it go away?" she said, when she found the blood did not disappear.
"No, not for kissing," said Bob. "Milly hurt it, but Milly can't cure it."
The words seemed to make a deep impression upon the child, and she walked sadly towards the bed. "Milly naughty, and hurt Bob," she said, and, hiding her head in the bedclothes, she burst into tears.
The widow laid her hand on the fair, shining hair, and said gently, "Yes, Milly is naughty; she has a naughty, passionate temper, and that has made her hurt Bob."
"Take Milly's naughty temper away, please," said the little girl, lifting her tear-stained face from the coverlet.
The widow shook her head. "I can't do that for Milly," she said, "but Jesus can, and will, if she asks Him to do it for her."
It was not the first time the child had heard that name, but it was the first time He had ever been spoken of as being her Friend—willing to do anything for her. And her blue eyes opened more widely still, as the widow went on to tell of the love and gentleness of this Friend, and how he would listen to the prayers of even little children, and grant their requests.
Milly had already learned to kneel down and put her hands together in prayer, and she did so now, repeating the simple words she had been taught by the widow.
When she had done, Bob came and lifted her on the bed beside his mother.
"Now, Milly, shall I teach you something the Lord Jesus said about being meek and gentle, instead of angry and passionate?" asked the widow, drawing the little face down to hers, and kissing the fair, rounded cheek.
"Please," said the child. "He did hear me, didn't He; and He won't let me get angry and hurt Bob again, will He?" she asked anxiously.
"Milly must try to be gentle, as well as pray to be gentle," said the widow. "Jesus said, 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.' Now, Milly, say that again, because I want you to learn it, and say it every night."
The child repeated the words several times, and, having a retentive memory, she soon knew them by heart.
From this time, it became noticeable that, young as she was, she did try to curb her passionate temper. That it was not easy to do this could be seen, but she nevertheless persevered in her efforts, and the outbursts became more rare and less violent during several years which glided by, with no event to mark them, beyond the receiving of one or two parcels of clothes for the lone little girl from Dr. Mansfield's housekeeper.
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE WIDOW'S DEATH.
"BLESSED are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Little Milly was kneeling at the widow's bedside repeating this verse, as she did every night.
"Why do I say that so often?" she asked, as she arose from her knees and Bob lifted her into bed.
"Because I think Milly needs it," said the widow.
"But I don't go into tempers now," said the child. "I'm trying to be meek and lowly, like Jesus, that I may go and see my papa."
It was a long time since Milly had mentioned this name, and all thought it had faded from her memory.
It brought the tears to the widow's eyes as she heard it.
"What makes you cry?" asked Milly. "You said one day I should see papa. Won't Jesus take me to see him soon?"
"Perhaps He will, dear," replied the widow, kissing the little face.
And she sighed as she looked at the fragile little figure, and thought how very likely it was that she should be called upon to part with this tender blossom that had become so very dear to her, and the brightness and sunshine of their home. And try as she would, she could not keep back her tears at the thought of parting with her, even though it was to become like the angels she was so fond of talking about.
It was a favorite subject with Milly to say she would be an angel and take care of somebody. Sometimes it was Bob, or Jack, and sometimes the widow herself. And these talks of the child always made her think she would be early taken to another world.
But the widow never glanced at the possibility of its being her own death that would thus separate them. She had been unable to walk for several years, but her general health was good, and she looked forward to spending some years yet on the low truckle bed, and do what she could for the comfort of her two boys.
She was saying this to a neighbor one day—it was not often they had a visit from any one, for the nearest cottage was some distance from their own, and so it was a treat for the widow to have some one to talk to. The woman looked at her keenly as she spoke, and asked if she felt quite well.
"I have been until now, but I can't say that I feel too well to-day, though it's nothing to complain of, only a little pain here," and she laid her hand upon her heart.
"You'd better let one of the boys get you some medicine, if it don't get better," said her friend.
The widow smiled. She had little faith in medicine, and did not believe it would do her any good now.
"I'll get some herb-tea made to-morrow," she said, and resolved to pay no more heed to the troublesome pain in her side.
But something in her appearance made her friend far less easy about the matter. And as she was leaving, she contrived to draw Jack on one side and tell him her fears concerning his mother.
The boy started, and looked towards the bed through the open doorway. "Do you think she's ill?" he said anxiously.
"Hush! Don't let her hear what we are talking about. Yes, I am afraid she is ill, or going to be ill. If she does not seem better to-morrow, if she still has the pain in her side, send Bob down for me, and I'll come up and persuade her to have the doctor. Mind you send early," she added, as she turned up the little path leading from the sea-shore to the village.
Jack felt anxious and alarmed as the woman left him. But when he went back to the cottage and saw his mother's placid face, looking perhaps a trifle paler, but otherwise just the same as usual, his fears subsided, and he felt sure it was all a mistake—his mother was not going to be ill.
The boy was right too. The widow was not going to be ill, she was going to that land where there is neither sickness nor sorrow. She had even reached the borders of it, although she knew it not.
She was unusually cheerful that night, the pain in her side was better, she said, and she felt almost well enough to get up.
As a great treat, Milly was to sit up to supper that night, and, being very wakeful, she remained up until the usual chapter was read and prayer had been offered up by the widow.
Earnestly and affectionately did she commend each to the care of their Heavenly Father, making special mention of little Milly, that, if spared, she might be a blessing and a help to many. And then, with an affectionate farewell, she bade each go to bed.
All thought of what he had heard concerning his mother's illness had passed from Jack's mind, and his last thought before going to sleep was of the pleasant, happy evening they had spent, and his dreams were of a happy home-circle, in which his father's place was not empty.
He was aroused the next morning by Milly laying her little hand on his face. The circumstance did not alarm him, for the child usually awoke early, and often came to call them.
But when she said, "Wake up, Jack, and light the fire, mother's so cold," an instant fear seized the boy's heart.
Springing out of bed, he ran into the adjoining room, and one glance at the little bed confirmed his worst fears. He did not scream or cry out, but a groan of anguish burst from his heart; and Bob, whom Milly had likewise awakened, came hurrying in after him.
"What is it? Is mother ill?" he asked, as he saw his brother throw the sheet over her face.
Jack shook his head. "Make haste and get your things on, and run down for Mrs. Ship," he said.
Bob looked from his brother to the bed. "Is it too late to fetch the doctor?" he asked.
Jack nodded. "Don't let Milly come in here," he said, as the little girl was about to clamber up on the bed again.
Bob took her in his arms and went back to their little sleeping-room. But then all his firmness gave way, and throwing himself on the bed, he burst into an irrepressible wail of anguish.
"What's a-matter, Bob? Ain't mother well? She wants her breakfast, I think," said Milly.
Bob tried to choke back his tears for the sake of the child. "Mother won't want any more breakfasts, Milly," he said; "she's gone to heaven—gone to see Jesus!"
The little girl sat down, her hands clasped in her lap. "She's gone to be an angel, then, instead of me?" she said.
"No, not instead of you, Milly. You've been an angel to us here, I'm sure, and so you will be!" But there he stopped.
What would become of the child now his mother had gone? She was far too young to be left in the cottage alone while they were away at work, even if they could have attended to her wants while they were at home.
But he could not stay to think of this now; he had to hurry away to bring their neighbor from the village. And while he was gone, Jack dressed Milly, and did what he could to put the house in order.
A doctor came with the woman and Bob, but it was useless to try to restore animation. She must have been dead some hours, he said; he thought it probable that she had passed away in her sleep, so calm and peaceful did she look in her death-slumber.
What was to become of Milly, was of course the first question that presented itself to the mind of Mrs. Ship. She offered the boys a home with her, but she could not take Milly, she said. And so it was resolved that Bob should take her up to Dr. Mansfield's to ask the advice of the housekeeper on the subject.
Mrs. Ship thought it would be best to do this without delay, and urged Bob to do it at once. But the boy had a sad foreboding that poor Milly would be sent to the workhouse, and wanted to postpone it until after the funeral.
"You won't forget what mother told you about being meek and gentle, and loving Jesus?" said Bob, as he slowly led the little girl towards the doctor's house.
"No, I won't forget," said Milly. "But where are we going to, Bob? Don't you hear me?"
Bob sighed. He almost wished she was lying beside his mother. He loved the little fair-haired girl, that had taught them so many lessons of self-control, and he could not bear the thought of her being thrust out into the rude rough world of the workhouse.
"I don't know where you'll go yet, Milly," he said, speaking as calmly and steadily as he could; "but you will try to be a good girl—one of God's messengers wherever you go—won't you?"
The child nodded, and went on with her artless prattle of how she was going to take care of him when she was a woman, until they reached the doctor's house, and Bob had rung the bell, which he did with a trembling hand, greatly fearing that the housekeeper would be angry with him for bringing Milly against her express command.
[CHAPTER V.]
GOD'S MESSENGER.
THE bell was not answered the first time Bob rung it, and his fears so far got the better of him that before he ventured to pull it again, he took Milly to a little distance out of sight, and telling her to wait there, went back more boldly, and his summons being answered this time, he asked to see Dr. Mansfield's housekeeper.
She was not at home, the other servant said.
But at the same moment, Dr. Mansfield came down stairs and saw Bob, whom he had designated "the quiet boy." The doctor was in one of his best moods to-day, and asked him if he had come about getting some more sea-weed.
"No, sir; it's about poor little Milly, the baby you saved, sir," said Bob, unable to keep back his tears.
"The baby I saved!" repeated the doctor, passing his hand across his forehead. "Did I ever save anybody?" he asked in a wild, eager tone.
"Yes, sir, you saved Milly's life; but mother's dead now, sir, and Jack don't know what we'd best do about her."
"About this baby?"
"She ain't a baby now," hastily interrupted Bob. "Mother said a short time ago she thought she must be going on six years. It's four years ago I picked her up and brought her here."
"Ah, yes, I remember; and now you're going to bring her here again; that's right, that's right. I'd like to see this baby; bring her now." And the doctor made an impatient gesture for Bob to go at once.
Bob would much rather have seen the housekeeper than Dr. Mansfield, for it was generally believed in the village that he was insane, and he felt somewhat nervous at the thought of leaving Milly in that large rambling old house with a madman. But the doctor had spoken so imperatively, that he knew not how to disobey him, for he feared that if he did so, the doctor would himself come and carry her off.
This fear at last prevailed over every other feeling. But inwardly hoping that the housekeeper might return before he got back to the house, he went to Milly, telling her she was going to see the lady that had sent her all her new frocks.
To his very great disappointment, almost consternation, he heard that the housekeeper had not come back.
But Dr. Mansfield, who had been waiting his return, stepped out of an adjoining room and looked at Milly. Long and earnestly did he gaze into her upturned face, and Milly as steadfastly regarded him.
"Little girl, will you come to me?" he said at length, in a voice faltering with emotion.
For answer, she held out her arms, and put up her lips to be kissed.
The doctor caught her, murmuring, "So like, so like that other!"
He took no further notice of Bob, but carried the little girl back with him into the room.
And when the housekeeper returned, an hour or two afterwards, she found, to her great annoyance, that Milly was making herself quite at home among the quaint odd playthings the doctor had given her.
Her first resolution was that Milly should not stay there long, but in this she had reckoned without her host. Dr. Mansfield would not hear of the child being sent away, and his attachment to her seemed to grow every day. She was his constant companion; and although he often appeared to be silently looking at her in moody indifference, her very presence seemed to afford him so much relief from his own more gloomy thoughts, that he could not bear to have her out of his sight very long.
"Wait a bit, things won't last like this always," said the housekeeper. "Master will be glad to get rid of the little plague by and by."
And the time when this was expected came very soon. Dr. Mansfield shut himself up in his room, and forbade any one to disturb him.
Milly's first inquiry, on coming down stairs in the morning and seeing his place empty, was for him. When told he was in his room, though bidden to remain, she was turning to go to him, but was caught, and with sundry slaps laid upon her arms and shoulders, brought back to her breakfast.
Whether it was that she was unused to this mode of punishment, and felt the indignity of it, or whether the housekeeper's repeated threats that she could never see the doctor any more, appealed to her fear, and by this to her passion, certain it is that she burst into a such a fury of anger, that her persecutor set her free in alarm, and Milly ran shrieking up to the doctor's door, which was at once opened to her, and she ran sobbing into his arms.
"Milly, Milly, what is the matter?" he asked, kissing and trying to comfort her.
But the child cried on in spite of all he could do or say to allay her grief, while the housekeeper down stairs was thinking that nothing better could have happened to forward her plans for getting her out of the house.
It seemed that the doctor's plan of locking himself up from everybody would have to be postponed for that day at least, for he came down not long after with Milly in his arms. She had sobbed herself to sleep, and her little troubled face gave the doctor more anxiety just now than his own life-long griefs.
"What is it makes you so unhappy?" he said when she awoke, and he saw the same troubled look settle on her face more deeply than ever.
She looked up at him.
"Don't you know?" she said, her lips quivering.
He shook his head.
"I've been a naughty girl, very naughty; I got angry."
"Is that all? I thought you had been hurt," said the doctor, in some surprise.
She looked down at her arms. "It didn't hurt much," she said, "but it made me feel so bad." And the little fist clenched again as she spoke.
At this moment the housekeeper entered the room for something, and Dr. Mansfield was about to ask her what she had done to the child.
But before he could speak, Milly slipped off his knee and hurried around to where the housekeeper stood. The tears were in her eyes, and her lips quivered as she said, "Please forgive me for going into a passion, will you? I'm very, very sorry, and, and—" But here her voice broke down, and bursting into tears, she ran back to the doctor's arms.
He was scarcely less moved than the child herself. "What made you do that, Milly?" he said, when she had somewhat recovered herself. "Why, I declare you are almost as passionate as—as I am."
The child looked up at him with a curious, inquiring gaze. "Do you get angry?" she said, in a tone of wonder.
He turned his head away. "Don't, don't ask me, child," he said impatiently. "I can't help it—I can't help it."
"No, I know; it's Jesus that helps us; ain't it?" said the little girl simply. "And I've been forgetting all about Him since I've been here. Will you teach me again? 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.' I want to be meek and gentle, like Jesus, but it is so hard, and I do forget so very often."
The doctor shook his head, simply because he did not know what to say, but listened with interest to the child's talk.
"I've been very naughty to-day, haven't I?" she said, the tears welling up again to her eyes. "Do you think I shall ever be gentle and kind?"
Her listener nodded his head, seeing she expected an answer.
"Couldn't you ask Jesus to help me now?" she said in a minute or two. "Or else, perhaps, if you stay up stairs to-morrow morning, I shall scream again."
And as she spoke, she slipped from his arms, and knelt down in front of a chair close by. She evidently expected him to follow her example, and, scarce knowing what he did, he knelt beside her.
She waited some minutes, expecting to hear him pray for her, as the widow had done many times; but no sound, save a faint sob, broke the silence of the room. And so, putting her hands together, and raising her eyes, she slowly and reverently repeated her simple morning prayer, ending with "Our Father," and then the text, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."
She knelt in front of a chair, and the doctor knelt
beside her.
[CHAPTER VI.]
REST FOR THE WEARY.
WHEN Milly paused, a sob broke from the doctor's lips, and the little girl felt somewhat awed as she arose from her knees and saw her companion still kneeling.
She knew not what a tide of recollections the unaccustomed posture and her simple words had awakened; that a tempest between principle and passion was raging in the doctor's heart; that once more he, who had so long been the slave of Satan and his own evil passions, was visited by the angel of mercy, who would fain lead him to look away from himself up to a higher power for strength to conquer.
Nearly an hour passed before he arose from his knees, and Milly had begun to get frightened, and was about to leave the room. This action of hers, however, aroused him.
"Don't go away," he said in a hoarse whisper. "You won't be afraid of me, will you?"
She shook her head.
"They used to be afraid of me—everybody," he said dreamily, as he took her on his knee again. "Who told you it was wrong to get angry?" he asked in a minute or two.
"It says so in the Bible," answered Milly. "Jesus never got angry; and I want to be like Jesus."
"I wish I had tried to conquer my temper when I was as young as you," he said. "If I had thought of what my mother had taught me—for she made me learn, 'Blessed are the meek,'—if I had thought of this, and asked God to make me meek and gentle, instead of being proud and passionate, I should have been a happy man now instead of a miserable one.
"Everybody thinks I am rich, but, Milly, I had better be as poor as the boy who brought you here—Bob, the fisher-boy; I know he is gentle, kind and obedient. I know he enjoys many things; while I—I never enjoy anything. It's nothing but misery—misery—misery with me!" And he uttered the last words in a sort of wail, so that Milly felt distressed and puzzled too.
But remembering when anything happened to the widow, she always liked to hear her read some verses against which she had placed a mark in her Testament, she ran from the room to get it. Bob had only brought it to her the day before, and she had spelled over the words she was now about to read as soon as it came, for they brought to her mind the kind friend who had taught her all she knew. A well-worn, well-thumbed book it was, for it had been almost her only spelling book, and the leaf on which were the marked verses was worn thin by the travelling of the little finger over them.
"I'm going to read something to you," said Milly, as she came back into the room again with the book in her hand.
She perched herself on his knee and turned to the place. It opened almost of itself at the right chapter, and Milly knew each word of her favorite verse; but she placed her finger under each as she read:
"'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'"
Eagerly did Dr. Mansfield's eyes follow the little finger, while his ears drank in the loving, soothing words. "I'm weary, weary," he sighed. "O that I could find this rest!"
"Jesus will give it to you if you ask Him," said Milly, looking up from her book. "I know a place where it tells about that," she said.
And she turned the leaves over until she found and read some more marked verses—
"'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'"
Deeply did Dr. Mansfield ponder over these words. Could he ask for this rest that was offered? Conscience whispered of a dark deed in the past. Could he hope for this to be forgiven?
When Milly went to bed, he asked her to lend him her book. And long after every one else was asleep, did he sit reading over again the verses she had read. Until at last, remembering the child's words and action of the morning, he again knelt down, and, almost for the first time in his life, prayed—prayed for pardon, and for strength to overcome the remembrance of what had driven him almost to the verge of insanity.
The following morning he felt as little disposed to leave his room as he had done on the previous day. The depression of mind and the power of his old habit of shutting himself up and giving vent to his temper, was exercising its influence over him; stronger than ever, as it seemed to him. And he was about to repeat the order of the previous morning, when there arose up before him the vision of a little girl striving to overcome her anger, and meekly asking forgiveness.
This recalled the hopes that had been raised the previous day; and why should he disdain to learn of this child? Why not copy her example? Yes, he would; he would at least try, as she was doing, to overcome some things, even if he could do no more.
And having made this resolution, he hastened to the breakfast room, that he might have the help which her presence always gave him. She met him with a beaming smile. He was later than usual, and it was evident she had been anxiously watching for him.
"I didn't scream this morning," she whispered, as she took his hand; "I did ask Jesus to make me gentle."
It brought to him her action of the previous day, and why should he be above copying her in this particular? Why should he be too proud to seek strength from the same source this little child obtained hers? Thus, unconsciously, Dr. Mansfield was gaining the greatest victory over himself in thus learning of a little child.
He went up stairs after breakfast, and knelt down, but, scarce knowing what to say, he repeated what he could remember of Milly's prayer, and that brought words to his lips for his own most pressing needs. The struggle he felt must be a hard one, but already there had dawned upon his mind a ray of hope that he, even he, might not only be pardoned, but also delivered from the baneful influence of his evil, vicious temper. And the thought that he might yet have peace in his conscience, and a cheerful and happy life, so filled him with joy and rapture, that he felt it would be his happiness—nay, his highest pleasure—to do everything he could to show his gratitude to his God, if such a change could ever be wrought in his dark and wearied spirit.
These thoughts and feelings did not come all at once. They were of gradual growth; but day by day, week by week, he became less morose and gloomy, and after a short time, the kind words of which Milly alone had been the first recipient, came to be extended to others. And the news soon spread in the village that the doctor was certainly not out of his mind, after all that had been said about him.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS.
ABOUT this time a fever broke out in the neighborhood, and one of the families first attacked was Mrs. Ship's, where Milly's friends, Jack and Bob, still lived.
News of this was brought in by one of the servants, when Milly was in the kitchen one morning.
"Two of the children are very bad indeed," said the girl. "And the baker says they're so poor now, they can hardly get a living, so what they'll do with sickness in the house, I don't know."
"Poor things! It's a pity they can't get somebody to help them a bit," said the housekeeper. But she has no thought of giving them any help herself, although she might have done it, had she felt so disposed.
Milly stood at the table, eagerly listening to all that was said.
"Will Bob and Jack have the fever and be ill, do you think?" she asked, after a minute's pause.
"Very likely, child; there's no telling who will have it and who won't, and as it's in the house where they live, they'll be very likely to take it."