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."

[Illustration: She knelt in front of a chair, and the doctor knelt beside her.]