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 the hands of God and of Nature.

Shortly after her twelfth birthday she was caught on the moors by a heavy autumnal shower, and, unwilling to miss her ramble by returning home, pursued her way drenched to the skin.  A severe illness was the consequence, an illness which left a weakness in her knee, eventually incapacitating her for all exercise whatever, and keeping her a prisoner to the house.  The village doctor laboured long, but in vain was all his skill.  At last a specialist from the great city beyond the hills was called, who ordered the child to be removed to the Royal Infirmary, where care, skill, and nourishment would all be within easy reach.  So it came to pass one summer morning, as the sun lighted up the wide moors, and the hum of the factories in the valley began to be carried upwards towards the heights, a little crowd of folks gathered round the door of Abraham Lord’s cottage to take a farewell of ‘th’ little lass.’  About eight o’clock the doctor drove up, and in a few moments Milly was carried in his and her father’s strong arms and gently laid in the cushioned carriage, and then slowly driven away from the home which now for the first time in her life she was leaving.  The eyes of the onlookers were as moist as the dewy herbage on which they stood, and many a voice trembled in the farewell given in response to Milly’s ‘Good-bye.’