CHAPTER IV.

MRS. MAXWELL’S SORROW.

Milly spent a very happy afternoon at the keeper’s cottage the next day, and came down to dessert in the evening so full of her visit that she could talk of nothing else.

“They were so kind to me, uncle.  Mrs. Maxwell made a hot currant cake on purpose for me, and the cat had a red ribbon for company, and we sat by the fire and talked when Maxwell was out, and she told me such lovely stories, and I saw a beautiful picture of the probable son in the best parlor, and Mrs. Maxwell took it down and let me have a good look at it.  I am going to save up my money and buy one just like it for my nursery, and do you know, uncle—­”

She stopped short, but not for want of breath.  Putting her curly head on one side, she surveyed her uncle for a minute meditatively, then asked, a little doubtfully: 

“Can you keep a secret, Uncle Edward?  Because I would like to tell you, only, you see, Mrs. Maxwell doesn’t talk about it, and I told her I wouldn’t—­at least, not to the servants, you know.”

“I think you can trust me,” Sir Edward said gravely.

“This is it, then, and I think it’s so wonderful.  They have got a real live probable son.”

Sir Edward raised his eyebrows.  His little niece continued: 

“Yes, they really have.  It was when I was talking about the picture Mrs. Maxwell took the corner of her apron and wiped her eyes, and said she had a dear son who had run away from home, and she hadn’t seen him for nine years.  Just fancy!  Where was I nine years ago?”

“Not born.”

“But I must have been somewhere,” and Milly’s active little brain now started another train of thought, until she got fairly bewildered.

“I expect I was fast asleep in God’s arms,” she said at length, with knitted brows; “only, of course, I don’t remember,” and having settled that point to her satisfaction, she continued her story: 

“Mrs. Maxwell’s ‘probable son’ is called Tommy.  He ran away when he was seventeen because he didn’t like the blacksmith’s shop.  Mrs. Maxwell and I cried about him.  He had such curly hair, and stood six feet in his stockings, and he was a beautiful baby when he was little, and had croup and—­and confusions, and didn’t come to for four hours; but he would run away, though he laid the fire and put sticks on it and drew the water for Mrs. Maxwell before he went.  And Mrs. Maxwell says he may be a soldier or a sailor now for all she knows, and he may be drownded dead, or run over, or have both his legs shot to pieces, or he may be in India with the blacks; but I told her he was very likely taking care of some pigs somewhere, and she got happy a little bit then, and we dried our tears, and she gave me some peppermint to suck.  Isn’t it a wonderful story, uncle?”

“Very wonderful,” was the response.