MILLY'S ERRAND;

OR,

SAVED TO SAVE.

BY

EMMA LESLIE

PHILADELPHIA:

ALFRED MARTIEN

1214 CHESTNUT STREET. 1873.

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Alfred Martien,

PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. THE BROTHERS

CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE WAIF

CHAPTER III. THE COTTAGE HOME

CHAPTER IV. THE WIDOW'S DEATH

CHAPTER V. GOD'S MESSENGER

CHAPTER VI. REST FOR THE WEARY

CHAPTER VII. THE DOCTOR'S KINDNESS

CHAPTER VIII. THE DOCTOR'S STORY

CHAPTER IX. MAJOR FERRERS

CHAPTER X. "BLESSED ARE THE MEEK."

CHAPTER XI. CONCLUSION

MILLY'S ERRAND;

OR,

Saved to Save.

CHAPTER I.

THE BROTHERS.

"WE shall have stormy weather, I am thinking, before long." The speaker was an old sailor, and as he spoke, he raised his spy-glass again to take another look at the distant horizon. "It's coming, lads," he said, addressing two stout grown boys, who had just come up with a donkey-cart to gather the sea-weed that lay in heaps on the sandy shore.

The elder of the two looked out upon the sea as the old man spoke. "There's a ship in the offing over there, ain't there?" he said, pointing to a dim speck in the distance.

"Yes; I, can't make much of her yet, but she'd better tack for the harbor pretty soon, or she won't get in, and once on these rocks here, it'll be all up with her."

It was a dangerous part of the coast; and as the old man resumed his professional walk, he cast another anxious glance towards the vessel, and then at the signs of the weather, which every moment became more threatening.

The boys went on gathering the sea-weed, working most industriously.

Presently the younger one stopped to rest on his hooked stick for a minute or two. "What heaps of money that old doctor must have," he said, looking at the cart, and thinking of what had been promised them for a dozen loads of the sea-weed.

"He ain't old, I tell you," said his brother, likewise stopping to rest for a minute or two, for it was hard work dragging up the heaps of heavy, wet sea-weed. "Mother says he ain't more 'n thirty, or forty at the most."

"Well, he looks old, anyway; his hair's gray, and his face is always puckered up."

"Yes, and nobody can tell what's the matter with him, and nobody dares to go near him."

"It's a pity he ain't poor, and got to work for a poor old mother like we have, Jack." And the younger boy sighed as he thought of the miserable little hovel where his mother lay bedridden with rheumatics.

"Yes, or else that he'd look after the people about, and do some good with his money. They say he's the richest and most miserable man for miles around. But look here, if we stand talking about Dr. Mansfield like this, we shall never get the sea-weed into his garden, and then mother won't get her new blanket."

And the two set to work again at once. They were fisher-boys, but gathered sea-weed at odd times when not employed with their nets. Dr. Mansfield's gardener had ordered a dozen loads, promising to pay them liberally for it; and it was this that had led them to speak of the eccentric doctor himself.

All the village talked about him, more or less, for he was a puzzle to everybody, and various were the rumors afloat concerning him. The one most generally received and believed in was, that he had either accidentally, or in the heat of passion, killed a brother or cousin, or some near relative, and that although the crime could not be proved against him, he knew he was guilty, and at times suffered agonies of remorse in consequence.

The truth of this was doubted by some, but none could dispute that the doctor was a most wretched man, a misery to himself, and often to every one about him. For days and often nights were passed when no one dared to go near him, when the ceaseless tramp of his footsteps up and down was only interrupted by the agonizing groans that broke from his lips.

The boys had heard of this, and probably were thinking of it just now, for the younger paused again in his work; after a minute of two he said, "The doctor's got one of his bad turns again, Jack."

"How do you know that?" asked his brother somewhat sharply, for, like some other elder brothers, Jack was a little jealous of Bob receiving any information except through him.

"I heard one of the servants tell the gardener, he was nearly raving this morning, and that no one dared go near him."

"But I would go," said Jack boldly.

"You'd get killed if you did," said Bob; "they say he's in such an awful passion, that he's mad nearly if any one goes near his room."

"Well, I don't care; I'd go and ask him what was the matter—whether he was ill, or something like that."

Bob shook his head, and evidently thought it was a good thing his brother could not put his dangerous experiment into execution. "I shouldn't like to do that," he said, speaking very slow and thoughtfully; "but if I could do anything that would help him, or do him good, I'd like to do it, for I don't suppose he will enjoy his beautiful garden half so much as we do getting this sea-weed for it."

"Enjoy it? I don't know so much about enjoying it," said Jack; "we've got to do it, and the sooner it's done the better, for we shall have a squall before long, I know."

"Never mind, it'll only blow up the more weed for to-morrow," said Bob, who always took a cheerful view of things.

"I don't know so much about that," returned his brother, again looking seawards. "That vessel don't seem to be making much headway, and she'll stand no chance if the storm comes on before she reaches the harbor, and it will come pretty soon," he added, as the wind came sweeping over the sea in fitful sobs and gusts.

The shades of evening had gathered in by the time their cart was full, and with a last look at the laboring vessel, the boys turned homewards.

"Mother, there's a fine big ship in the offing, and if she don't make the harbor pretty soon, she'll be on the rocks before morning," said Jack, as he pushed open the door of their little cottage.

The old woman's face brightened at the sight of her boys, but it grew anxious as she heard these words. "God grant the storm may keep off then a few hours longer," she said, fervently, "for it is awful to think of—awful to listen to the wild ravings of the wind, and have to lie here helpless, while poor souls are being lost for want of help. And yet, what am I saying? One would think I was more merciful than God, or that He couldn't help them. Bob, find my favorite text. I know it, lad, but I like to put my finger on it, and see it's there, ever since your father was drowned in a storm."

Bob did as his mother desired him as soon as his brother had struck a light. He knew the verse to which his mother referred, and read slowly and solemnly,—

"'Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance.'"

"Yes, the hollow of His hand, that's it," murmured the old woman. "They're in the hollow of His hand still, though they be on the raging sea, and He'll care for and guide each one of 'em, though we can't see His hand, and it seems all left to chance."

The boys were used to these little bits of talk, addressed half to them and half to herself, and went on with their work of preparing the frugal supper, only stopping now and then to listen to the wind, which sometimes threatened to overturn their little dwelling in its fury.

"I wish I could do something for that ship out there," said Bob, as he finished his supper.

"An' if it was only to save one from drowning, it 'ud do some good," said Jack.

"Well, boys, come and kneel down here, and pray for me first, and then go and see if there's anything doing, or whether she's got into the harbor," said the widow.

And as she spoke, she turned the pages of the Bible, and read the story of the Lord being in the tempest asleep, and the affright of the disciples at their danger, and then His wondrous words, "Peace, be still," which at once produced a great calm.

The boys arose from their knees, and knew, although no word had been spoken, that for them and for those on the vessel many heartfelt prayers would ascend from their mother's heart. They opened the cottage door and went out, but soon returned with the intelligence that it was hoped she would gain the harbor yet, and so, feeling very tired, they both went to bed.

CHAPTER II.

THE LITTLE WAIF.

JACK and his brother were soon fast asleep, in spite of the noise made by the wind. But the widow lay listening to its wild roar, and thinking of that night when her husband was out in just such a storm as this, that came on so suddenly that before he could reach the shore his little fishing boat was dashed on the fatal rocks, and he and three others perished in the eddying waves.

As the hours went on, the storm increased in violence, while ever and anon between the lulls of the tempest the guns of a vessel in distress could be plainly heard. At the earliest dawn, all the men in the village were down upon the beach; some had been there all night watching the ineffectual effort of the splendid vessel to gain the harbor. It was all in vain, she was drifting fast to her doom on the fatal reef of hidden rocks that made this coast so dangerous.

To describe the scene of agonizing excitement when she struck, would be impossible. All hope was at an end then, and the passengers who crowded her deck knew it. The storm, however, had begun to abate, and, as soon as it was possible, boats put off from the shore to rescue the helpless crew and passengers. But before half of them could be brought off, the vessel had begun to break up.

Our two fisher-lads were among the earliest arrivals at the exciting scene, and they had promised to run back with intelligence to their mother.

"Now, Bob, you just run and tell mother how she is," said Jack, after they had stood looking at the vessel for a minute or two; "and don't come down here again. Stop up at Sandy Cove and watch; you can slip back to mother then, and tell her how it's going on."

Bob did not much like the post assigned him, to be a lonely watcher in a sheltered nook, instead of in the midst of the excitement. But when his mother repeated the same request, he did not think of returning to his elder brother. He was a meek, gentle lad, although a fisher-boy, and quite accustomed to obey his mother, although he helped to support her, and so he quietly took up his lonely position to watch the doomed vessel.

She had struck during the time he had been running home, and when he saw the boats put off shortly afterwards, it was a sore trial to him to stay where he was, in obedience to his mother's wishes, instead of remaining on the scene of action. But he did stay, watching with eager interest the progress made by the boats, and occasionally shouting cheering words to the rowers, as though the din of wind and waves would carry them to the men.

Presently, as we have said, the vessel began to break up. One and another was washed from the crowded deck into the eddying waves, some flinging themselves in with life-preservers around them, and others lashing themselves to spars, hoping that these would keep them above water. One of these was quickly carried beyond the rocks and floated towards where Bob was standing. He did not notice it at first, but as it gradually drifted nearer, he saw that something was lashed to it. It came nearer each moment, and, as it came on, all the boy's interest centred in that one remnant of the wreck, and he prepared to plunge in and drag it to the shore. But there was no occasion for this. A wave caught it as he was dashing into the surf, and, whirling it past him, dashed it high up on the sandy beach. Bob ran to it instantly, and then saw that a child was securely lashed to it, but, to all appearance, dead as the spar itself.

To take out his knife, however, and cut the cords that bound the little creature was the work of a moment; and then taking it in his arms, with the long fair hair dripping over his shoulders, he ran with all his speed up the winding path towards home. But he halted before he had gone far. What could his mother do for the child, and she unable to turn herself in bed? And yet everybody else was down at the other part of the beach.

Suddenly he remembered Dr. Mansfield's house stood close by, and without a second thought about the matter, he ran there.

"I want the doctor!" he panted, when the startled housekeeper opened the door in answer to his imperious ring.

The woman glanced at the child and then at him. "Dr. Mansfield sees nobody, you know that," she said sternly. "You must take the child somewhere else."

But at this moment Bob felt, or fancied he felt, a faint fluttering in the little frame, while a door hastily opened on the opposite side of the hall revealed the bent figure of the doctor. Bob knew him in a moment, although he had not seen him above twice in his life, and dashing past the astonished housekeeper, he entered the room before she could prevent it.

"It ain't dead, doctor!" gasped Bob, holding out the still dripping child.

The doctor stepped back a pace or two and stared at the intruder with dilating eyes, bringing to the boy's recollection a rumor lately gone abroad that the doctor was out of his mind. "Why, you are the boy that came to my gardener yesterday with the sea-weed?" he said.

Bob nodded.

"Good. I like you, for you didn't get into a passion when the man swore so. I'll look at your baby." And he took the little creature from Bob as he spoke.

It was to all appearance dead, but the skilled hand of the physician detected a faint fluttering at the heart, and the discovery seemed to arouse him in a moment from the torpor and half insanity of his manner. Ringing the bell, he ordered blankets to be brought, and then proceeded to use other restoratives which he had close at hand.

For some time, however, it seemed that all their efforts were in vain, and nearly an hour passed before there were any signs of life, but at last there came a little faintly drawn breath, and the doctor redoubled his exertions to fan the faint spark of life into a flame again.

The effect of these exertions was scarcely less marked upon himself than upon the child, and Bob could only stare in blank amazement when he saw the change in the gloomy, misanthropic doctor. Brisk, active, energetic, decided, his bowed form stood erect, and the fire in his dark eyes flashed back a denial of anything like insanity.

And when at last, the heavy blue eyes of the little girl slowly opened, a smile broke over all the face of her deliverer. It was the first time he had been known to smile for ten years.

"Now, boy," he said, addressing Bob, "your baby will live, but you had better leave her here a bit, till she gets well."

"Yes, sir," answered the boy, pulling at his hair, but still staring in amazement at the doctor, and the wonderful transformation that had passed over him within the last hour.

"You can come and take her in a day or two, when she gets well," said the housekeeper as he was leaving, and the doctor nodded his acquiescence in his housekeeper's suggestion.

Bob ran to tell his mother of his adventure, and from her heard that most of the passengers and crew had been saved, but that the captain of the vessel had been washed overboard and drowned.

A month passed; the rescued passengers and crew had all departed from the lonely fishing village—all but the little waif, ill at Dr. Mansfield's. No one had come to claim her, and no one could tell to whom she belonged; the uncertainty which for some time hung over her, as to whether she would live or die, made this of secondary importance.

But soon after the last of the passengers had departed, an improvement took place in the child, the fever left her, and she was able to look around and notice her strange nurses. And to her, they did appear very strange, for she turned from every one but the doctor, refusing to make friends with any but him. She appeared to be about two years old, and could just lisp two words, "Milly" and "papa." By the former she meant herself, and the latter she applied to Dr. Mansfield. There was a little odd jargon of some foreign language that she babbled sometimes, but nothing of her name or parentage could be discovered from it.

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.