noan goin' agen it. I shall go daan wi' her mysel' to-morn.'

* * * * *

Milly, or 'th' little lass o' Lord's,' as the villagers called
her, was one of those phenomenal child personalities which now and
again visit this world as though to defy all laws of heredity, and
remind the selfish and the mighty of that kingdom in which the
little one is ruler. A bright, bonny, light-haired girl--the vital
feelings of delight pulsed through all her being. Born amid the
moorlands, cradled in the heather, nourished on the breezy heights
of Rehoboth, she grew up an ideal child of the hills. For years
her morning baptism had been a frolic across the dewy uplands;
and, evening by evening, the light of setting suns kindled holy
fires in her rapturous and wonder-filled eyes. The native heart,
too, was in touch with the native heath; for Milly's nature was
deeply poetic, many of her questions betraying a disposition and
sympathy strangely out of harmony with the kindly, yet rude, stock
from which she sprang. From a toddling child her eye carried
sunshine and her presence peace. Unconsciously she leavened the
whole village, and toned much of the harsh Calvinism that knit
together its iron creed. There was not one who did not in some way
respond to the magic of her voice, her mood, her presence. Even
Joseph softened as she stood by the yawning graves which he was
digging, and questioned him as to the dying and the dead. The old
pastor, Mr. Morell, stern man that he was, used to put his hand on
her head, and call her his 'Goldilocks'; and he had once been
heard to say, after leaving her, 'And a little child shall lead
them.' Though somewhat lonely, there was neither priggishness nor
precocity in her disposition; she was just herself--unspoiled from