Probable Sons | Page 9

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.
"Well, we were in the middle of talking when Maxwell came in, so we
hushed, because Mrs. Maxwell said, 'It makes my man so sad'; but, do
you know, when Maxwell was bringing me home through the wood he
asked me what we had been talking about, and he said he knew it was
about the boy because he could see it in Mrs. Maxwell's eye. And then I
asked him if he would run and kiss Tommy when he came back, and if
he would make a feast; and he said he would do anything to get him
home again."
Milly paused, then said wistfully,--
"I wish I had a father, Uncle Edward. You see, nurse does for a mother,
but fathers are so fond of their children, aren't they?"

"It does not always follow that they are," Sir Edward replied.
"The probable son's father loved him, and Maxwell loves Tommy, and
then there was David, you know, who really had a wicked son, with
long hair--I forget his name--and he cried dreadful when he was dead. I
sometimes tell God about it when I'm in bed, and then He--He just
seems to put His arms round me and send me off to sleep; at least, I
think He does. Nurse says God likes me to call Him my Father, but of
course that isn't quite the same as having a father I can see. Maxwell is
a very nice father, I think. I told him I would pray for Tommy every
night when I go to bed, and then I told him that God had lots of
probable sons, too--the clergyman said so on Sunday, didn't
he?--people who have run away from Him. I've been asking God to
make them come back. I hope He will let me know when they do. Do
you know any one who has run away from God, uncle?"
"You are chattering too much, child," said Sir Edward irritably; "sit still
and be quiet."
Milly instantly obeyed, and after some moments of silence her uncle
said,--
"I don't mind your going to Maxwell's cottage, but you must never take
Fritz with you. He is not allowed in that wood at all. Do you quite
understand?"
"Yes, but I'm very sorry, for Fritz doesn't like being left behind; the
tears were in his eyes when nurse told him he wasn't to go with me.
You see, no one talks to him like I do. He likes me to tell him stories,
and I told him when I came back about my visit, so he wants to go. But
I won't take him with me if you say no."
When she was leaving him that night for bed, she paused a moment as
she wished him good-night.
"Uncle Edward, when you say your prayers to-night, will you ask God
to make Tommy come back home? His mother does want him so
badly."

"I will leave you to do that," was the curt reply.
"Well, if you don't want to pray for Tommy, pray for God's probable
sons, won't you? Do, Uncle Edward. Mrs. Maxwell said the only thing
that comforted her is asking God to bring Tommy back."
Sir Edward made no reply, only dismissed her more peremptorily than
usual, and when she had left the room he leaned his arms on the
chimney piece, and resting his head on them, gazed silently into the fire
with a knitted brow. His thoughts did not soothe him, for he presently
raised his head with a short laugh, saying to himself,--