THE DOCTOR'S STORY.
MILLY had been at Dr. Mansfield's about two years, and every body began
to look upon her as his daughter now. The housekeeper had long given
up all hope and even desire to get rid of her, so wonderfully had
the house been brightened by her presence, that the extra trouble it
entailed was no longer thought of. She did not go to school, for there
were no schools in this remote fishing village, and to obviate the
necessity of her leaving him for this purpose, the doctor taught her
himself.
One day the doctor returned from paying several visits to his poor
patients in the village, more than usually depressed.
That recalled to Milly's memory what she had heard, and what she
herself faintly remembered, of his former gloomy fits, and she hastened
to bring out her lessons at once, to divert his mind from whatever
troubled him.
"No, we won't have the books this afternoon," said the doctor, when he
saw them. "I want to talk to you, Milly. You are only a little girl,
I know, but you are a sensible one, and I have learned a great many
things of you."
He kissed her as he spoke, and she opened her large blue eyes to wonder
what it was she could have taught such a clever man as Dr. Mansfield.
"Would you like me to tell you something of myself?" he continued.
"Something of when I was young?"
"O, yes, that I should!" answered Milly joyously. And noticing the
doctor's saddened look, she added, "But not if—if it makes you feel
sorry."
"I think, perhaps, it will do me good," he said, trying to smile. "I
will begin at the beginning. I was an only child, Milly, and a spoiled
one, I think. I was always passionate, and no one ever dared to cross
my will, until my cousin Edgar came to live with us. My mother was dead
then, and I soon began to fancy that my father loved this orphan cousin
better than myself, and, yielding to this feeling, I grew to hate
Edgar—to hate him, until at last, when we had both grown up, I one day
struck him down, saying I wished he might die at my feet.
"Milly, it was the last time I saw my cousin. For a long time I
thought he was dead, and I lived in France until my father died, when
I ventured to return, for I was his heir and many things needed to be
looked after, and then I heard that my cousin had gone to India, and
married out there."
"Didn't you feel very glad then?" asked Milly.
"I should, if I had felt quite sure about it; but I cannot feel sure,
and then the thought comes,—If he died of that blow I gave him! O
Milly, you cannot think the misery this has caused me."
The little girl sat and looked pityingly up at him. "Couldn't you write
a letter to India—a very nice kind letter, telling your cousin how
sorry you feel? Who told you he'd gone to India?" she asked.
That he could not remember; but he had all the particulars down in
writing, with the address of the person he hoped was his cousin, and he
seemed to be pondering over what Milly had said.
He had once or twice thought of writing and ascertaining for himself
whether his cousin still lived. But he had shrunk from destroying the
slender thread of hope that it might be him, by hearing that it was
not. But until lately there had also been another feeling at work
deterring him from making any inquiries, and that was his pride.
After their quarrel—if he survived it—his cousin had gone away, cutting
himself off entirely from all his former friends and acquaintances, and
not allowing one to know whither he had gone. Now for Dr. Mansfield,
after all that had occurred, to seek him, he felt would be impossible.
And yet now that Milly suggested it, he did not put away the suggestion
as he had formerly done. Nay, more; he sat and pondered over it, and
at last took out the paper containing the name and address of the
passenger who had met with Edgar, and the place he had named as his
residence.
"You are going to write that letter to India?" said Milly, seeing the
yellow discolored paper lying before him.
"I don't know, Milly. My cousin was never gentle nor kind towards me,"
and his brow grew dark again as he thought of the past.
She crept into his arms and wound her arm about his neck. "Wouldn't it
be like Jesus, if you were kind to him?" she whispered.
"What? I don't understand," he said, looking down into the clear blue
eyes.
"Why, Jesus came to us when—when—when I don't think the people cared
much about Him; but He was kind and gentle just the same."
"I see what you mean, Milly. You think I should write to my cousin,
whatever he may be, however he may act. But do you know it is not
easy—is not pleasant to do this, especially when you do not know how it
will be received?"
Milly nodded. "But Jesus did it for us," she said; "He came when the
people were wicked and cruel to Him, and we ought to be like Him—meek
and lowly in heart."
Milly had put it before him now in the most convincing manner. He had
been striving for some time to follow the example of the Saviour; but
he had failed to see before that, this meekness and lowliness—this
lowering of his pride—this voluntarily humbling of himself—was included
in the service he was seeking to render. But seeing it, he would not
now shrink from it, hard as it was.
The next day he wrote to his cousin—wrote as Milly had suggested—a
kind, loving epistle, in which the past was referred to with humility
and contrition, and a hope expressed that the writer might be forgiven
for what he had done in a moment of passion.
There was but a slender chance of its ever reaching the hand for which
it was intended, and Dr. Mansfield said this to himself again and
again. So many things might have happened during all these years to
take his cousin away from the spot where he had first settled, even
if he were still alive. And yet the doctor could not help indulging a
slight hope that his letter would be responded to. And from that time
it seemed as if a weight was lifted from his mind, and a cloud from his
brow—a weight that at one time he had thought he must always carry with
him as long as he lived.