He started as he read the name "Milly," and glanced across the table to the little girl now sitting before him. Could it be possible that she was his cousin's child? He had learned to look upon her and love her as his own, and now to think of another claiming her as a parent, claiming the first place in her affections, caused him a sharp thrill of pain. "Is it a nice letter?" asked Milly, pausing in her work of eating bread and butter to look across at the doctor. "Come here, Milly," said the gentleman. The little girl came around to his side, lifting her eyes wonderingly to his face. Something in them, and the light clustering curls, brought another face to his memory,—a young, boyish face—and instead of kissing the upturned face, the doctor moved aside. Yes, it must be; this was Edgar's child, his long-lost Milly. And then the doctor recalled the strange impression he had felt, when she was first brought to him, of having seen the child before. Milly looked and felt hurt at the half-repulse she had received, and her eyes were full of tears when she went back to her seat, but the doctor was too disturbed to notice this just now. He did remark, however, that instead of running into the garden as usual after breakfast, she went up stairs to her own room, and the incident somewhat puzzled him, more especially as it was some time before she came down again. When at length she came into the room again, she was looking somewhat pale and saddened, and with the traces of tears still on her face. "What is the matter?" asked Dr. Mansfield, looking up from the book he was trying to read. Milly colored, and her lips trembled a little as she said, "I was afraid—" and there she stopped. "What were you afraid of, Milly?" asked the doctor, drawing her to him. "I thought perhaps you were going to love your cousin in India better than me," said Milly slowly, and coloring as she spoke. The doctor stooped and kissed the little troubled face. "Suppose I should do so?" he said, a smile parting his lips. "I don't think I should mind much—at least, not very much now," she added. "Why not?" asked the doctor. "Are you going to leave off loving me?" And a sharp pain shot through his heart as he uttered the light words. For answer, she threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him. "O no, no!" she exclaimed. "I shall always love you." "God bless you, my darling," murmured the doctor fervently. "You have been a blessing to me, Milly, and the thought of parting with you makes me very sad. But now tell me why you would not mind it so very much?" he added, when he had soothed her. "I've been asking Jesus to help me learn my text better, 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,'" said Milly. "But you learned that long ago, Milly," said the doctor; "learned to practise it, too, in subduing your temper." "Yes, but 'meek' means so much," said Milly. "We used to talk about it when Bob and Jack were out fishing."