"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.