"Not born."

"But I must have been somewhere," and Milly's active little brain now
started another train of thought, until she got fairly bewildered.

"I expect 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