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. CHAPTER IX. MAJOR FERRERS.