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.