THE FIRST PUNISHMENT.
Slowly but surely little Milly was advancing in her uncle's favor. Her
extreme docility and great fearlessness, added to her quaintness of
speech and action, attracted him greatly. He became interested in
watching her little figure as it flitted to and fro, and the sunny laugh
and bright childish voice about the house were no longer an annoyance to
him.
One day he was moved to anger by an accident that happened to a small
statue in the hall and Milly was the delinquent. Her ball had rolled
behind it, and both she and the dog were having a romp to get it, when
in the scuffle the statue came to the ground and lay there in a thousand
pieces. Hearing the crash, Sir Edward came out of his study, and
completely losing his temper, he turned furiously upon the child, giving
vent to language that was hardly fit for her ears to hear. She stood
before him with round, frightened eyes and quivering lips, her little
figure upright and still, until she could bear it no longer; and then
she turned and fled from him through the garden door out upon the smooth
grassy lawn, where she flung herself down face foremost close to her
favorite beech tree, there giving way to a burst of passionate tears.
"I didn't mean it--oh! I didn't mean to break it," she sobbed aloud.
"Uncle Edward is a fearful angry man; he doesn't love me a bit. I wish I
had a father! I want a father like the probable son; he wouldn't be so
angry!"
And when later on nurse came, with an anxious face, to fetch her little
charge in from the cold, wet grass, she had not the heart to scold her,
for the tear-stained face was raised so pitifully to hers with the
words,--
"Oh, nurse, dear, carry me in your arms. No one loves me here. I've been
telling God all about it. He's the only One that isn't angry."
That evening, at the accustomed time, Milly stole quietly into the
dining-room, wondering in her little heart whether her uncle was still
angry with her.
As she climbed into her chair, now placed on the opposite side of the
large table, she eyed him doubtfully through her long eyelashes; then
gathering courage from the immovable expression of his face, she said in
her most cheerful tone,--
"It's a very fine night, uncle."
"Is it?" responded Sir Edward, who was accustomed by this time to some
such remark when his little niece wanted to attract his notice. Then
feeling really ashamed of his outburst a few hours before, he said, by
way of excusing himself,--"Look here, Millicent, you made me exceedingly
angry by your piece of mischief this afternoon. That statue can never be
replaced, and you have destroyed one of my most valuable possessions.
Let it be a warning for the future. If ever you break anything again, I
shall punish you most severely. Do you understand?"
"Yes, uncle," she answered, looking up earnestly. "'You will punish me
_most_ severely.' I will remember. I have been wondering why I broke it,
when I didn't mean to do it. Nurse says it was a most 'unfortunate
accident.' I asked her what an accident was. She says it's a thing that
happens when you don't expect it--a surprise, she called it. I'm sure
it was a dreadful surprise to me, and to Fritz, too; but I'll never play
ball in the hall again, _never_!"
A week later, and Sir Edward was in his study, absorbed in his books and
papers, when there was a knock at his door, and, to his astonishment,
his little niece walked in. This was so against all rules and
regulations that his voice was very stern as he said,--
"What is the meaning of this intrusion, Millicent? You know you are
never allowed to disturb me when here."
Milly did not answer for a moment. She walked up to her uncle, her small
lips tightly closed, and then, standing in front of him with clasped
hands, she said,--
"I've come to tell you some dreadful news."
Sir Edward pushed aside his papers, adjusted his glasses, and saw from
the pallor of the child's face and the scared expression in her eyes,
that it was no light matter that had made her venture into his presence
uncalled for.
"It's a dreadful surprise again," Milly continued, "but I told nurse I
must tell you at once. I--I felt so bad here," and her little hand was
laid pathetically on her chest.
"Well, what is it? Out with it, child! You are wasting my time," said
her uncle impatiently.
"I have--I have broken something else."
There was silence. Then Sir Edward asked drily,--
"And what is it now?"
"It's a--a flower-pot, that the gardener's boy left outside the
tool-house. I--I--well, I put it on Fritz's head for a hat, you know. He
did look so funny, but he tossed up his head and ran away, and it fell,
and it is smashed to bits. I have got the bits outside the door on the
mat. Shall I bring them in?"
A flower-pot was of such small value in Sir Edward's eyes that he almost
smiled at the child's distress.
"Well, well, you must learn not to touch the flower-pots in future. Now
run away, and do not disturb me again."
But Milly stood her ground.
"I think you have forgot, Uncle Edward. You told me that if I broke
anything again you would punish me '_most_ severely.' Those were the
words you said; don't you remember?"
Sir Edward pulled the ends of his moustache and fidgeted uneasily in his
chair. He always prided himself upon being a man of his word, but much
regretted at the present moment that he had been so rash in his speech.
"Oh! ah! I remember," he said at length, meeting his little niece's
anxious gaze with some embarrassment. Then pulling himself together, he
added sternly,--
"Of course you must be punished; it was exceedingly careless and
mischievous. What does your nurse do when she punishes you?"
"She never does punish me--not now," said Milly plaintively. "When I was
a very little girl I used to stand in the corner. I don't think nurse
has punished me for years."
Sir Edward was in a dilemma; children's punishments were quite unknown
to him. Milly seemed to guess at his difficulty.
"How were you punished when you were a little boy, uncle?"
"I used to be well thrashed. Many is the whipping that I have had from
my father!"
"What is a whipping--like you gave Fritz when he went into the game
wood?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. The child clasped her little hands tighter, and set
her lips firmer, as she saw before her eyes a strong arm dealing very
heavy strokes with a riding-whip. Then she said in an awe-struck tone,--
"And do you think that is how you had better punish me?"
Sir Edward smiled grimly as he looked at the baby figure standing so
erect before him.
"No," he said; "I do not think you are a fit subject for that kind of
treatment."
Milly heaved a sigh of relief.
"And don't you know how to punish," she said after some minutes of
awkward silence. There was commiseration in her tone. The situation was
becoming ludicrous to Sir Edward, though there was a certain amount of
annoyance at feeling his inability to carry out his threat.
"Nurse told me," continued his little niece gravely, "that she knew a
little boy who was shut up in a dark cupboard for a punishment; but he
was found nearly dead, and really died the next day, from fright. There
is a dark cupboard on the kitchen stairs. I don't think I should be very
frightened, because God will be in there with me. Do you think that
would do?"
This was not acceptable. The child went on with knitted brows:
"I expect the Bible will tell you how to punish. I remember a man who
picked up sticks on Sunday--he was stoned dead; and Elisha's servant was
made a leper, and some children were killed by a bear, and a prophet by
a lion, and Annas and Sophia were struck dead. All of them were punished
'most severely,' weren't they? If you forgave me a little bit, and left
out the 'most severely,' it would make it easier, I expect."
"Perhaps I might do that," said poor Sir Edward, who by this time longed
to dispense with the punishment altogether; "as it was only a
flower-pot, I will leave out the 'most severely.'"
Milly's face brightened.
"I think," she said, coming up to him and laying one hand on his
knee--"I think if I were to go to bed instead of coming down to dessert
with you this evening, that would punish me; don't you think so?"
"Very well, that will do. Now run away, and let this be your last
breakage. I cannot be worried with your punishments."
"I will try to be very good, nurse, always," said Milly while being
tucked up in bed that night, "because Uncle Edward is very puzzled when
he has to punish me. He doesn't know what to do. He looked quite unhappy
and said it worried him."
And Sir Edward as he finished his dinner in silence and solitude
muttered to himself,--
"That child is certainly a great nuisance at times, but, upon my word, I
quite miss her this evening. Children after all are original, if they
are nothing else, and she is one of the most original that I have ever
met."
It was Sunday morning, and Sir Edward was just starting for church. As
he stood over the blazing fire in the hall buttoning a glove, a little
voice came to him from the staircase:
"Uncle Edward, may I come down and speak to you?"
Permission being given, Milly danced down the stairs, and then, slipping
her little hand into her uncle's, she lifted a coaxing face to his.
"Will you take me to church with you? Nurse thinks I'm almost big enough
now, and I have been to church in the afternoon sometimes."
Sir Edward hesitated. "If you come, you will fidget, I expect. I cannot
stand that."
"I will sit as still as a mouse. I won't fidget."
"If you behave badly I shall never take you again. Yes, you may come. Be
quick and get ready."
A few moments after, Sir Edward and his little niece were walking down
the avenue, she clasping a large Bible under her arm, and trying in vain
to match her steps with his.
The squire's pew was one of the old-fashioned high ones, and Milly's
head did not reach the top of it. Very quiet and silent she was during
the service, and very particular to follow her uncle's example in every
respect, though she nearly upset his gravity at the outset by taking off
her hat in imitation of him and covering her face with it. But when the
sermon commenced her large dark eyes were riveted on the clergyman as he
gave out the text so well known to her:--
"_I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I
have sinned against Heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be
called thy son_"; and though the sermon was half an hour in length, her
gaze never left the pulpit.
"Uncle Edward," she said, when their steps at length turned homewards,
"do you know, I heard all the sermon, and understood it pretty well
except the long words. Wasn't it nice to hear about the probable son?"
"'Prodigal,' you mean. Cannot you pronounce your words properly?"
Sir Edward's tone was irritable. He had not been feeling very
comfortable under the good vicar's words.
"I can't say that; I always forget it. Nurse says one long word is as
good as another sometimes. Uncle, what did the clergyman mean by people
running away from God? No one does, do they?"
"A great many do," was the dry response.
"But how can they? Because God is everywhere. No one can't get away
from God, and why do they want to? Because God loves them so."
"Why did the prodigal want to get away?"
Milly considered.
"I s'pose he wanted to have some a--aventures, don't you call them? I
play at that, you know. All sorts of things happen to me before I sit
down at the beech tree, but--but it's so different with God. Why, I
should be fearful unhappy if I got away from Him. I couldn't, could I,
uncle? Who would take care of me and love me when I'm asleep? And who
would listen to my prayers? Why, Uncle Edward, I think I should die of
fright if I got away from God. Do tell me I couldn't."
Milly had stopped short, and grasped hold of Sir Edward's coat in her
growing excitement. He glanced at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
"You foolish child, there is no fear of your getting away from God.
Don't be so excitable. We will change the subject. I want to see
Maxwell, so we will go through the wood."
Maxwell was Sir Edward's head game-keeper, and a little later found them
at his pretty cottage at the edge of the wood. It was Milly's first
visit, and Mrs. Maxwell, a motherly-looking body, greeted her with such
a sunshiny smile that the child drew near to her instinctively.
"What a lovely room," she exclaimed, looking round the homely little
kitchen with a child's admiring eyes, "and what a beautiful cat! May I
stroke her?"
Assent being given, Milly was soon seated in a large cushioned chair, a
fat tabby cat on her lap, and while Sir Edward was occupied with his
keeper she was making fast friends with the wife.
"Uncle Edward," she said, when they had taken their leave and were
walking homewards, "Mrs. Maxwell has asked me to go to tea with her
to-morrow. May I--all by myself?"
"Ask your nurse; I have no objection."
"I should love to live in her house," continued the child eagerly; "it
is all among the trees, and I love trees. And this wood is so lovely.
Why, I might get lost in it, mightn't I? I have never been here before.
In my story-books, children always get lost in a wood. Uncle Edward, do
you think the trees talk to one another? I always think they do. Look
at them now. They are just shaking their heads together and whispering,
aren't they? Whispering very gently to-day, because it is Sunday.
Sometimes they get angry with one another and scream, but I like to hear
them hum and sing best. Nurse says it's the wind that makes them do it.
Don't you like to hear them? When I lie in bed I listen to them around
the house, and I always want to sing with them. Nurse doesn't like it.
She says it's the wind moaning. I think it's the trees singing to God,
and I love them when they do it. Which do you think it is?"
And so Milly chatted on, and Sir Edward listened, and put in a word or
two occasionally, and on the whole did not find his small niece bad
company. He told her when they entered the house that she could go to
church every Sunday morning in future with him, and that sent Milly to
the nursery with a radiant face, there to confide to nurse that she had
had a "lovely time," and was going to tea as often as she might with
"Mrs. Maxwell in the wood."