Milly’s tone was truly pathetic, and Mrs. Maxwell, who loved to hear her childish fancies and never laughed at them, now looked up from her knitting sympathetically—­

“You’re sad yourself, dear.  Is your uncle pretty well to-day?”

“I think he is getting better, but he mustn’t talk, and nurse won’t let me see him.  I think it’s winter makes me sad, Mrs. Maxwell.”

There was silence for a few moments.  Milly stroked her cat thoughtfully, then she said,—­

“If Uncle Edward had died, what would have happened to me?  Should I have had to go to the workhouse?”

“Bless your little heart, no!  Why, my man and I was saying the other day that it’s most sure as you’ll be mistress of the property one day.  Sir Edward he have no other kith or kin, as far as we know.  Workhouse, indeed!  A place where they takes in tramps and vagabonds.”

“I heard some of the maids talking about it,” pursued Milly; “they said they wondered what would happen to me.  I think he is my only uncle, so I couldn’t go anywhere else.  I wish I had a father, Mrs. Maxwell, I’m always wishing for one.  I never remember my father.  My mother I do, but she was always ill, and she didn’t like me to bother her.  Do you know, I thought when I came to Uncle Edward that he would be a kind of father; Miss Kent said he would.  But I’m afraid he doesn’t like me to bother him either.  I should like him to take me up in his arms and kiss me.  Do you think he ever will?  I feel as if no one cares for me sometimes.”

“I think a certain little apple dumpling as I put in the oven for some one is smelling as if it wants to come out,” was Mrs. Maxwell’s brisk response as she bustled out of her chair, her old eyes moist with feeling.

In an instant Milly’s pensiveness had disappeared.  A baked apple dumpling had great charms for her, and no one would have believed that the light-hearted child with the merry laugh, now dancing around the room, and climbing up to the dresser for a plate, was the same as the one who had so sadly discoursed a few moments before on the mournfulness of winter and of her orphaned state.

“Did you make such nice apple dumplings for Tommy?” she asked presently, busy with her fork and spoon, and looking supremely content with herself and surroundings.

“Ah!  Didn’t I?  I mind when he used to come in on Saturdays from the forge, I always had a hot pudding for him.  He used to say there was no one as cooked as well as mother.”

“He’s a long time coming home, isn’t he, Mrs. Maxwell?  I get so tired of waiting.  I wish he would come for Christmas.”

“I’m not tired of waiting,” Mrs. Maxwell said softly, “and I’ve waited these nine years, but it sometimes seems as if it is only yesterday as he went off.  I feel at times like fretting sadly over him, and wish I knew if he was alive or dead, but then the Lord do comfort one, and I know He sees just where he is, and He’ll let me know when the right time comes.”