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.