of two years old, in her hand. As she approached she heard voices, but the turn in the wall, for it was a corner room, completely comcealed her. She stood, not daring to breathe, amid the long tendrils of the honeysuckle. She could not be mistaken—it was her father's voice and she heard him say, "Charles, I own the weakness—I do pine to see my child."
The next moment Mildred was at his feet. She found him much changed; illness had subdued his iron strength. He was lonely and dependent, and he now acknowledged the need of that affection which hitherto he had repelled. He soon could scarcely bear his daughter out of his sight, and she watched his every look. Sir Henry, almost confined to the house, driven about in a pony-chaise, was a happier man than he had ever been. One only subject of anxiety remained—he had openly made his nephew his heir, and he now saw the prior claim of his own child. They were gathered one summer evening in the little parlour, which still continued their favourite room, when Sir Henry introduced the subject. "It does not need," exclaimed the cousins, in a breath.
But Charles had yet more to say; he told Mildred that he loved her, and implored her father to give her hand, as of far more value than all the wealth that he could bequeath. Mildred allowed her hand to rest in his; but even the lover could draw no encouragement from the action. She was calm, but very pale—and her kindness was only kindness. "Charles," said she, looking on with the gentle affection of a sister, "I have loved once—however unworthily, I can never love again. I returned not to the world, but to my home—I am God and my father's!"
Charles gazed earnestly on the sweet eyes that sank not beneath his own. He saw that hope was out of the question, and pressing the hand which he relinquished, would have left the room; but detaining him, she turned to her father, and said, "He is my brother, is he not?"
"It shall be as you wish, Mildred," replied Sir Henry, "though I had hoped otherwise."
Charles soon after left them for a gay season in London, and where he formed an attachment to the beautiful but portionless orphan of an officer who had been killed in the Peninsula; it was Mildred who reconciled Sir Henry to the match. The young couple took up their residence at Pemberton House, and Mildred was to them as a sister.
At Sir Henry's death it was found that he had bequeathed his whole property to his nephew, with only a sufficient annuity to his daughter, and a little cottage which she had had built in the park. This was close to her cousins, without the strict retirement in which she lived being any check upon them. She never married, but passed her life in acts of kindness. Her place was by the sick bed, or with the afflicted,—the soother of every sorrow, the friend in every trouble. The children, who were fast growing up in the old Hall, adored her; and when, in after days, they passed her portrait in the gallery, it was with the same remark—"If ever there was an angel on earth it was my cousin Mildred!"
L. E. L.
