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+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75351 ***
+
+Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
+
+[Illustration: Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.]
+
+
+
+                           WON OVER:
+
+                  THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.
+
+
+                              BY
+
+                       _NELLIE HELLIS_
+
+  AUTHOR OF "ROVING ROBIN," "MARTIN DRAYTON'S SIN," ETC., ETC.
+
+
+
+                            LONDON:
+         T. WOOLMER, 2, CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, E.C.,
+                 AND 66, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
+
+                             1885.
+
+
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+
+                         To my Father,
+
+                IN GRATEFUL RECOGNITION OF HIS
+
+                   LOVING HELP AND SYMPATHY.
+
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+                          CONTENTS.
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+CHAP.
+
+   I.—BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS
+
+  II.—HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON
+
+ III.—WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT
+
+  IV.—MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA
+
+   V.—MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL
+
+  VI.—PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD
+
+ VII.—IN THE HOSPITAL
+
+VIII.—MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY
+
+  IX.—STRONGER THAN DEATH
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+
+
+                           WON OVER:
+
+                  THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS.
+
+IT was a hot day in July, and twelve o'clock was striking from a
+neighbouring church as a little girl came from one of the narrow
+streets that open into Drury Lane, and walked rapidly in the direction
+of Oxford Street. Her face, generally very pale, was now flushed with
+pleasure and excitement, while her eyes sparkled with delight. She had
+gone some little distance before she perceived the person whom she had
+come to meet. It was her brother, and breaking into a run she was soon
+at his side.
+
+"O! Phil," she gasped, completely out of breath, "what do you think?
+Miss Crawford has been to see me."
+
+"You should not run in such hot weather, Millie," said her brother.
+"You'll be ill again, if you do. Here, sit down a minute on this
+door-step, and get cool. Who has been, did you say?"
+
+"Miss Crawford. Why, Phil, you can't have forgotten her."
+
+"No, I remember," he answered shortly; and his face grew sorrowful,
+almost stern, at the recollections the name recalled.
+
+"She said she had been trying to find us everywhere," Millie went on
+eagerly, "but nobody at Camberwell seemed to know where we had gone.
+Then one day last week she happened to meet Ned Roberts, and he told
+her that he thought uncle had moved to Swift Street."
+
+"Yes, more's the pity," muttered Phil. "Didn't she tell you the
+wretched hole would half kill you?"
+
+"No, of course not. You know she's not the one to make the worst of
+anything, Phil. She's too good for that. But, indeed, it's not so bad,
+after all. Why, our street is quite fresh and pleasant compared to Back
+Court," said Millie, mentioning one of the most wretched of the many
+thickly-populated alleys near Drury Lane.
+
+"You're like her there; you always make the best of everything. I wish
+I could, but I can't," said Phil despondently. "Never mind, Millie,"
+he added cheerfully after a moment's pause, "I shall soon be able to
+earn enough to keep us both. I shall be fourteen, you know, next month.
+Won't we have a pretty cottage in the country some day, that's all?"
+
+"But we couldn't leave uncle, Phil," said Millie, earnestly.
+
+"Why not? He has done nothing to make us very grateful to him, and
+he's no such pleasant company either," answered Phil in a rough, harsh
+tone. "See how he treats me! I did not tell you before, but, Millie—"
+he lowered his voice as he said it—"he struck me the other night; yes,
+struck me a blow that sent me reeling half across the room."
+
+"O! Phil, when?" Millie exclaimed anxiously, forgetting Miss Crawford
+and everything else in the alarm caused by her brother's words. "Where
+was I? How was it that I didn't know anything about it?"
+
+"You were asleep, dear. You had a headache and had gone to bed, and I
+took care not to make a noise, for I didn't want to wake you. I only
+looked at uncle; and, coward that he is, he slunk off to his room
+without speaking. He had been drinking, of course," said Phil; "but if
+he should dare to do it again, or touch you, I'll—" He did not finish
+his sentence, but he drew himself up, and shook back the hair from his
+forehead with such an expression of hatred and revenge on his face that
+Millie shuddered.
+
+"Phil, don't look so," she said. "You need not fear that he will ever
+strike me. He loves me too dearly for that. You know I can do almost
+anything with him."
+
+"Except make him give up his bad companions and bad habits; and unless
+you can do that, I don't see of what use your influence is, Millie,"
+returned Phil with a short, bitter laugh. "For my part," he added, "I
+think it's a mercy poor aunt died when she did. He'd have broken her
+heart before now."
+
+Millie thought it wiser to say nothing, though she could not suppress
+the weary sigh that came from the very bottom of her heart, as rising
+from the door-step she began walking slowly back to the place they now
+called home. Phil kept pace with her, looking miserable and gloomy.
+Very soon, however, Millie's face broke into a smile again, and she
+cheerfully started a new subject of conversation.
+
+"Dinner is all ready for you, Phil. Aren't you hungry?"
+
+"No, it's too hot to be hungry. Besides, who could eat in this vile
+atmosphere?"
+
+"But I've got a lovely lettuce for you, and vinegar. Vinegar is always
+so refreshing, I think, in hot weather. Then there's plenty of cheese,
+and a bit of beef we had over from yesterday. And—But guess what there
+is besides."
+
+"Is uncle coming home to dinner?" inquired Phil.
+
+Millie thought that he was ungraciously ignoring her request, and
+replied in rather a hurt voice—
+
+"No, he said he should not be in till night."
+
+Her brother's next words, however, told her that she had wronged him.
+
+"Well, then, there will be you, and to have you all to myself for half
+an hour will be as good as twenty dinners, Millie."
+
+There was one noble trait in Phil's character, at any rate, his intense
+love for his sister. It shone out now from his innermost soul, as
+looking fondly at her, he tucked her hand under his arm.
+
+"No, but do guess what it is," Millie went on eagerly. "It's something
+so nice—something you will enjoy. Miss Crawford brought it."
+
+"Then it's sure to be something good. Tell me, I'm a bad hand at
+guessing."
+
+"A dish of cherries. Such beauties! There was a basket full of them,
+and at the top she had spread some flowers. I thought it was all
+flowers at first. Isn't she kind, Phil? And O! She said—But there,"
+exclaimed Millie, suddenly interrupting herself, "we'll have dinner
+now, and I'll tell you what she said presently."
+
+So saying, Millie entered the house in Swift Street in which the
+brother and sister and their uncle lodged. Their rooms were on the
+top floor, and the little girl climbed wearily up the long steep
+staircase. Phil walked behind, taking good care not to hurry her. On
+every landing there were children playing,—poor, dirty, uncared-for
+little things who, for the most part, were shoeless and ragged. Some
+were quarrelling, while some, happier than the rest, were ravenously
+devouring the slices of bread, thinly spread with jam, that constituted
+their midday meal. On the second landing, a girl, older than Millie,
+with a coarse, bold face, called out sneeringly:
+
+"Well, you two stuck-ups! Just arrived from your mornin' walk? Ain't
+you proud of your uncle? He's such an ornament to the family, that you
+ought to be."
+
+"You'd better be careful what you say before my sister, Nora Dickson,"
+returned Phil haughtily. "I won't have her insulted by such a girl as
+you, I can tell you."
+
+Nora answered him with a mocking laugh, but she wisely refrained from
+further comment, and went on cobbling—it could not be called sewing—the
+ragged little frock which she held in her hand.
+
+As Millie had said, the dinner did look inviting. Yet it was only owing
+to the nice arrangement of the dishes, the cleanliness of the cloth,
+and the polish upon the knives and forks, that it had that appearance,
+for the food itself was small in quantity, and second-rate in quality.
+There was an air of neatness and refinement about the room too, which
+was evidently the result of Millie's care and taste; Millie, the
+child-woman, who in the twelve years of her short life had seen so many
+changes, and experienced so many of this world's sorrows and troubles.
+
+"Well," said Phil, cutting up his lettuce and beginning to eat with
+a relish that told of a good healthy appetite. "Well, what did Miss
+Crawford say?"
+
+"Why," replied Millie, the glad, happy look coming back again into her
+eyes, "she said I was to go to her house and have tea with her. She
+did, Phil. Aren't you glad?"
+
+"Jolly glad, little woman. It will just do you good to have a change,
+and plenty of something nice to eat for once in the way. When are you
+going?"
+
+"Not till next week, because Miss Crawford's brother is ill, and she
+has to nurse him. But he is getting better now, she says, and as soon
+as ever she is at leisure, she will fix a day for me to go."
+
+"She lives in Kennington Road, doesn't she?" Phil asked.
+
+"Yes, Baverstock House, Kennington Road. I remember it, because I saw
+aunt direct a letter to her once." Then, with a change in her voice,
+Millie continued, "Phil, I think that before aunt died she must have
+asked Miss Crawford to look after me a bit, for she told me this
+morning that whenever I was in trouble, and wanted a friend, I was
+always to let her know, and she would help me in any way she could. She
+was so grieved about uncle too. She said she wished she could find me
+a more comfortable home than this. But when I told her that I wouldn't
+leave you nor uncle, she smiled, and said that I was right, and that so
+long as uncle was willing to have me, it was best for me to stay."
+
+"But it's not good for you to be here. I know that well enough," Phil
+returned bitterly. "I wish I could take you away; but we shall have to
+wait for that."
+
+"I shouldn't leave uncle under any circumstances," said Millie
+earnestly and resolutely. "I promised aunt that, however bad he might
+be, I would always care for him and attend to him, just as she would
+have done if she had lived."
+
+"You're a good girl," said Phil, "but flesh and blood can't stand too
+much. However," he added more cheerfully, "we won't talk about our
+troubles any more. Get out your cherries. I must be back at one; so I
+have no time to spare."
+
+Even Phil's gloomy face brightened as Millie took from the cupboard a
+plate of beautiful "bigaroons." He ate a dozen or so with considerable
+gusto, then stopped short.
+
+"Why, Millie, you're eating none," he said. "Mind, I shan't have a
+single cherry more than you, so please make haste. They won't keep this
+weather, you know."
+
+"But—but uncle would like some," said Millie timidly.
+
+"There it is again," exclaimed Phil angrily, breaking out into one
+of his sudden outbursts of passion. "It's always uncle, uncle, from
+morning to night. I'm sick of the sound of the word. I am nobody and
+nothing, I suppose."
+
+"O Phil, dear Phil, don't," said Millie, laying her head upon his
+shoulder and bursting into tears. "I do love you. You know I do. I have
+nobody in the world but you. If I hadn't you, I should just like to lie
+down and die. Don't say such unkind things."
+
+"There, there," said Phil tenderly, his anger all melting at sight of
+his sister's tears. "I didn't mean to vex you. Why, Millie," as her
+sobs increased, "don't be such a baby. You are a woman now, as you said
+the other day." And he kissed her, and lovingly stroked back the damp
+curls from her hot forehead.
+
+"Somebody must love uncle, Phil. It's the only thing that will save
+him. Aunt felt that, I know. And besides, you can't deny that when he's
+sober, he'll do anything for 'the little lass.'" And Millie smiled
+bravely, "just to please Phil," as she said to herself.
+
+"Well, I'm off," he said when he saw that her tears had ceased. "Don't
+expect me home till late to-night. There's a lot of extra work to be
+done, and I must stay overtime. Good-bye, dear."
+
+He turned to go, but Millie held out a handful of cherries and looked
+so pleadingly at him, that against his will, he took them. Then,
+calling out a last good-bye from the door, Phil tramped downstairs, and
+Millie saw no more of him till dusk.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON.
+
+POOR Phil and Millie! Their history had been a sad one, as you shall
+hear.
+
+Until within a year or so of the time when this story opens, they had
+lived in the pretty seaside village of Chormouth, in the south of
+Devonshire. Their father, Philip Guntry, was a sailor. He earned good
+wages as second mate on board a merchant vessel, while their mother
+employed some of her leisure time in lace-making, a work at which she
+was particularly skilful. So they were comfortably off, and Millie and
+Phil, in those days, knew nothing of want and privation.
+
+Sometimes, when Millie sat alone in their small close lodgings in
+Swift Street, she would shut her eyes and conjure up before her the
+village street and the pretty little cottage that had been her home
+for so many happy years. Very wistfully she thought of the little room
+which, with its dainty bed and spotless hangings of white muslin, she
+had once called her own; of the lovely view from its window; of the
+creeping rose bush, whose clusters of white blossoms had awakened her
+on many a sunshiny morning by gently tapping on her window pane; of
+the comfortable, homely kitchen, and of the parlour where they sat on
+Sundays, or entertained visitors who, having dropped in for a chat,
+were prevailed upon to stay and take a cup of tea.
+
+So time had passed happily and prosperously with the Guntrys until
+Millie was nearly ten years old. Then a terrible trouble shadowed the
+brightness of their home; and, alas! other griefs came rapidly upon the
+footsteps of the first.
+
+Philip Guntry, who had been absent on a long voyage, was daily expected
+at Chormouth. Anxious eyes scanned the shipping intelligence for news
+of the "Cynthia," and his wife spent many weary nights in listening to
+the blustering wind, and the distant swell of the ocean. The gales of
+that autumn were unusually severe, and wrecks and disasters were of
+such frequent occurrence that Mrs. Guntry's heart might well sicken
+with fear as days and weeks passed by and brought no news of her
+husband's arrival in England.
+
+At last, one morning, she read in a newspaper that a broken piece of
+timber, bearing the name of the "Cynthia," had been picked up at sea,
+from which fact it was concluded that the vessel in question had been
+wrecked during the fearful gales of the past weeks, and that all hands
+on board had perished.
+
+It was indeed a trial to the poor wife. Her worst forebodings were
+realised, and in the first agony of her grief, her spirits sank beneath
+the blow. But she was a brave little woman, and knowing that it now
+devolved upon her to support herself and her children, she put all
+selfish indulgence of her sorrow aside, and with willing hands, though
+with a heavy heart, set herself resolutely to her lace-making, which,
+once a mere pastime for leisure moments, had now to become a necessary
+and serious occupation for the whole of the day. Even then she found
+it a difficult matter to make both ends meet. True, there was a little
+fund of money in the Savings Bank. It had been placed there against a
+rainy day, but though the rainy day had now come, she felt that there
+might be a stormier one in the future, and would not touch it.
+
+By dint, however, of working early and late, and living very frugally,
+she was able to live on in the old home—it would have broken her heart
+to leave it—and send the children regularly to school, where Phil was
+doing wonders, and was already looked upon as a genius.
+
+With constant occupation, and in the peace of mind that her cheerful
+resignation to God's will brought with it, there presently sprang up
+within her a belief, which, though weak at first, grew stronger as
+time went on. It was a belief that her husband still lived, and that
+he would eventually return to her. She told her little daughter of her
+new-born hope, for Millie was thoughtful and gentle beyond her years,
+and her mother and she were very closely bound together in sympathy and
+love.
+
+"Millie," she would say to her, when in the long winter evenings Phil
+was away at his drawing class, and mother and daughter sat alone by
+the fireside, "Millie, I can't understand why I feel so sure that your
+father will come back to us some day. It seems impossible, I know,
+but I can't get rid of an inward conviction that he is not dead. Yet
+perhaps it is only because my hope of seeing him again is so great that
+it seems as if it must be realised."
+
+But her hope was never realised on earth. Within a year of the wreck of
+the "Cynthia" smallpox broke out in the village. The dreadful disease
+spread rapidly, and Mrs. Guntry was one of the first to sicken. An
+empty cottage on the outskirts of the village had been hastily prepared
+as a hospital for the sufferers. To this she was taken, and here, in a
+week or two, she died.
+
+Everybody pitied, and did what they could for the poor children who
+were now left alone in the world. The vicar wrote to an aunt in London,
+their mother's sister, who was almost the only relative they had,
+asking her if she could do anything for the orphans.
+
+In a few days an answer came from Mrs. Hunt. It brought good news for
+Phil and Millie. She would gladly give her nephew and niece a home, she
+said, and she would herself come to Chormouth and take them back with
+her to London.
+
+The children loved their aunt directly they saw her. Her manners were
+so kind and gentle, and her soft voice and sweet pale face reminded
+them so much of their dear mother, that their lonely sorrowful hearts
+were greatly comforted, and they felt at home with her at once. As she
+bent over Millie on the night of her arrival to give her a last kiss in
+bed, the child smiled her first smile since that dreadful day when her
+mother had been carried off to the cottage hospital.
+
+Mrs. Hunt remained a few days at Chormouth, arranging the sale of the
+furniture in the Guntrys' cottage, and settling a few business affairs
+on behalf of the children. The money in the Savings Bank had been
+nearly all spent in defraying the expenses of Mrs. Guntry's illness and
+funeral: the few pounds that remained, Mrs. Hunt resolved should pay
+for the children's further education, for she was by no means well off,
+and it was almost more than she could do to give them a home. Then,
+when all was finished, she went back to London, accompanied by Phil and
+Millie.
+
+They were as happy with their aunt Hunt as they would have been
+anywhere, perhaps, but they had not been long in the house before
+they understood the cause of their aunt's anxious face, and the weary
+vigils that she kept at night as she sat listening for her husband's
+tardy footsteps; for, alas! Richard Hunt had one great failing, that
+of indulging in habits of intemperance. It was a constant grief to
+his wife. He was an artisan—a painter—and they might have lived very
+pleasantly and comfortably had it not been for his unfortunate love of
+drink.
+
+From the first hour of their meeting Phil and his uncle never got on
+well together. There was something strangely antagonistic between them.
+Phil was reserved, cold, almost sullen towards his uncle, who never
+took the trouble to overcome his nephew's dislike, or interest himself
+in Phil's pursuits. With Millie it was different; he took a great fancy
+to her. Perhaps she reminded him of his tiny fair-haired child, whose
+short life of three years had ended in so sudden and painful a manner.
+
+It happened that "Baby," as they still called her, was left alone
+in the kitchen, and thinking, poor little one! what a bright pretty
+plaything the fire would make, she began pulling out the blazing
+sticks. One of these must have fallen upon her print pinafore, and
+instantly the child was in flames. Her screams alarmed her mother, who
+came flying to the spot. Seizing the child, she enveloped her in a
+thick shawl, and so extinguished the fire, but not before the tender
+limbs had been most fearfully burned. Three days after that fatal
+morning, "Baby" died, and so intense had been her agony that the mother
+at last prayed that death might come to put an end to her darling's
+sufferings. Poor mother! She felt that to her dying day she could never
+forgive herself for having left her child alone on the disastrous
+morning of the accident. No second bairn ever came to take "Baby's"
+empty place.
+
+Two years after that sad event, Mrs. Gantry died, and her sister at
+once asked her husband's permission to bring the two orphaned children
+to share their home. He objected strongly at first, remarking, very
+justly, that what would keep two persons in tolerable comfort was a
+short allowance for four. But Mrs. Hunt cheerfully talked away all
+difficulties, and at last her wish was gratified.
+
+In Millie's sweet companionship and loving care they felt repaid for
+what they had done. She settled down at once, taking upon herself
+certain of the household duties—"the little lass" being her uncle's pet
+name for her.
+
+Phil was by no means so happy. He went with his sister to school for
+the first few weeks after their arrival in London, but feeling sure
+that his uncle considered him a lazy fellow, who preferred idling his
+time over his books to any more profitable employment, he begged to be
+allowed to seek a situation. He soon obtained one, but was miserable
+in it. He was always longing for time to study and draw, and every
+spare moment was occupied with a book or pencil. He hated London, too,
+and London life. He felt "suffocated and smoke-dried," he said, and he
+longed intensely for the freedom and fresh air of the country.
+
+Then came another heavy loss for the children; one that made their
+lives desolate indeed. The following winter was unusually severe; and
+Mrs. Hunt, who was naturally delicate, caught a heavy cold, which
+turned to bronchitis, and in the end proved fatal. As she lay on what
+she felt would be her death-bed, her mind was troubled with many
+perplexities and anxieties respecting her husband and the children she
+had adopted. She feared that her husband would go from bad to worse;
+for he was weak-minded and easily led astray, and her influence had
+been the one thing that had kept him from bringing complete disgrace
+and ruin upon himself and home. What then would be Phil and Millie's
+fate? Certainly Phil was well educated for his age and position in
+life; consequently he would always be able to get a situation of some
+kind; but he was still very young, and both he and his sister needed
+wise guardianship and kind care. But after all she could only leave it
+in God's hands. The one thing that she could do, she did, which was
+to beg Miss Crawford to take an interest in the orphans, and be their
+friend and counsellor in any special difficulty.
+
+Miss Crawford had known Mrs. Hunt ever since her child's death, when
+she had been requested by the vicar of the parish to call on the poor
+mother and comfort her in her sorrow. Very gladly she had consented;
+for though she was young, she had that love for her fellow-creatures
+which springs only from a deeper love for their Creator. Many a
+wretched London home had been brightened by her gentle presence, and
+many were the sad hearts that her words of sympathy had cheered.
+
+Miss Crawford generally saw Millie when she called on Mrs. Hunt, and
+she liked the little girl for her own sake. Of Phil she knew very
+little, but she promised the dying woman that neither should want a
+friend while she was living. So their aunt was comforted and her mind
+set at rest.
+
+"I am quite happy," she said feebly, to the weeping friends who were
+gathered around her dying bed. "Love each other, and live for each
+other, my darlings. Good-bye, my husband; meet me in heaven. I shall
+watch for you there."
+
+
+For awhile after her death all went quietly. Each mourned the dear one
+who had been removed, and her dying words rang in her husband's ear.
+Before many months had past, however, several of his old habits were
+resumed; he renewed his acquaintance with some of his most disreputable
+"chums," and would come reeling home at uncertain hours of the night,
+much the worse for drink. Well might Millie's face grow pale, and her
+eyes heavy, as her daily burden of care grew heavier and heavier. Her
+only ray of comfort was that Miss Crawford was her true friend, and
+often came to see her.
+
+In the beginning of June, Phil and Millie were surprised to hear from
+their uncle that he had decided to leave Camberwell and live in Swift
+Street, Drury Lane. Great was the horror of the children when they
+found themselves in such a close, dirty neighbourhood. It was indeed
+different from beautiful Chormouth with its sunny bay, its big red
+cliffs, its green downs, pretty cottages and neat gardens.
+
+It was little wonder they thought yearningly of their old home, and
+sorrowfully compared it with their present. But it was harder for Phil
+than for Millie. She knew the love of God—knowledge which will make
+the saddest life happy. When weary or lonely, she would get her Bible,
+and ponder over the comforting words it contains, till her heart was
+cheerful and light again: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in
+Him; and He shall bring it to pass," she would say softly to herself.
+She believed implicitly that there was a better time coming, and lived
+in the present but to cheer her brother and endeavour to win back her
+uncle to a better life.
+
+It would have been well for Phil if he too had possessed Millie's
+Christian spirit; but his troubles, instead of softening, had hardened
+his heart. If he thought of God at all, it was as One who takes
+pleasure in punishing and chastising His children, and not as a loving
+Father "Who delighteth in mercy."
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT.
+
+IT was about a fortnight after the conversation recorded in the first
+chapter, when Phil, coming in from work somewhat earlier than usual,
+asked Millie to go out for a walk with him. It had been a hot, close
+day, and at the mere thought of a cool stroll with her brother she
+jumped up with alacrity.
+
+"You don't mind being left alone, uncle?" she asked of that individual,
+who sat by the open window smoking a short pipe.
+
+"No, no," he said, "I'm glad for you to go." Then looking at her rather
+anxiously, he added, "You haven't looked so well lately. There, take
+this penny and go on the bridge. The breeze from the river will freshen
+you a bit."
+
+Waterloo Bridge is a free thoroughfare now, but at the time of this
+story there was a toll of one halfpenny upon every passenger who
+crossed it.
+
+"Thank you, uncle," said Millie gratefully.
+
+He had come home sober that evening—a rare occurrence—and was showing
+an unusual amount of interest in domestic matters.
+
+"We won't stay out very late."
+
+"The longer the better, child. I shan't want you. Just put the bread
+and cheese on the table, though, before you go. There will be nothing
+to make you hurry back then," he said kindly.
+
+Phil fidgeted about till this was done. Then he and Millie started off.
+Down Drury Lane and out into the Strand they passed; crossed the road
+into Wellington Street, and so arrived on Waterloo Bridge, where they
+sauntered to and fro awhile; then Millie said:
+
+"Let us sit down in one of these recesses, Phil. It is pleasanter than
+walking about, and the wind is so cool and refreshing."
+
+"The moon will be up presently, Millie. You will like that."
+
+"Yes, indeed, I shall. I remember how beautiful it was on moonlight
+nights at Chormouth. There was a broad pathway of silvery waves right
+across the sea as far as the eye could reach. I used to think how
+nice it would be to row in a little boat right up the glittering road
+of light; for it was so lovely that I fancied it must surely lead to
+heaven. Phil," Millie continued solemnly, "do you know that I saw it
+again last night in a dream?"
+
+Her brother thought that she was going to tell him what she had dreamed
+about, but Millie was silent, with a far-away look in her eyes, as she
+gazed up into the sky. Presently she gave a little sigh, and, rousing
+herself, said:
+
+"Is the river pretty by moonlight, Phil?"
+
+"Of course it's nothing like the sea," he replied; "but you will be
+able to judge for yourself in a few minutes. Are you cold, Millie?
+Here, let me draw your scarf close round your throat, and wind the end
+again—so." He was always careful of Millie.
+
+"Thank you," she said, "but I am not cold. Phil," she added after a
+pause, "don't you think it's strange that Miss Crawford has not been
+since that day when she brought the cherries?"
+
+"Perhaps her brother is worse. When was it she came?"
+
+"A fortnight ago yesterday. Perhaps if she doesn't come soon, she will
+write. I wish when I go to her house to tea you could come too, Phil
+dear."
+
+"No, thank you, Millie, I'd rather not. I like you to go, but I should
+feel uncomfortable in a grand house like hers."
+
+"Would you?" said Millie slowly. "I never thought of that before.
+Perhaps I had better not go then."
+
+"That's nonsense; you and I are so different, Millie. Besides, I can't
+quite tolerate being patronised yet," he said bitterly.
+
+Millie looked puzzled. "What does that mean?" she asked with knitted
+brows.
+
+"O never mind," he replied, with a little laugh. "If you don't know,
+it's just as well that you shouldn't be told. 'Where ignorance is
+bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' O Millie," he burst out suddenly, after
+a pause, "I wish I were dead."
+
+"My darling," she said lovingly, as she nestled closer to him and put
+her hand in his, "don't say that, for my sake. O how I wish I could
+make you happier! I wish you felt as I do—that God will send us better
+times if we are only patient, and will trust Him. Don't you remember
+what mother used to say about there being a silver lining to every
+cloud? I am sure there is a silver lining to our cloud, if we would
+only see it."
+
+"No, Millie, there is not," he answered in a despondent voice.
+"Everything is against us. We are being dragged down lower and lower. I
+ought to be doing something better than putting up parcels of grocery,
+and carrying them to people's houses, and you ought to be going to
+school."
+
+"But perhaps when the master of the shop sees how clever you are," said
+Millie, ignoring that part of Phil's speech that referred to herself,
+"perhaps he'll let you serve behind the counter, or some day, Phil, you
+might keep the books; just think of that!"
+
+Millie had a profound belief in her brother's abilities to do anything
+and everything; for hadn't he been the very first boy in the school at
+Chormouth, and didn't their mother say that her son seemed to have such
+a liking for books that she would try to make a schoolmaster of him?
+
+"Anyhow, Millie," Phil said, with an effort to be cheerful, "I will
+earn enough money for us both some day. But there, I say that so often,
+that you must be tired of hearing it. Look away yonder. Do you see the
+moon coming up over the chimneys there?"
+
+Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.
+
+"It is very beautiful, Phil, even here," she said softly. "What is that
+high straight tower called?"
+
+"That is the Shot Tower, where shot is made." Then he explained the
+process to her—how melted lead is poured through a colander at the top
+of the tower and made to drop into a vessel of water at the bottom,
+in perfect little spherical forms—"like the drops of rain, you know,
+Millie."
+
+Then he pointed out the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey;
+bade her listen to the half-hour as it struck from Big Ben, and told
+her what he knew of the history of the many large buildings in the
+neighbourhood of Waterloo Bridge. Had Cleopatra's Needle been there
+then, he might have made his sister's eyes grow big with wonder at
+the marvellous stories that could be related of that, but the famous
+obelisk was at that time in its old place at Alexandria.
+
+And now the moon, the full moon, had risen over the mighty city of
+London. Near objects were bathed in its bright, pure light, while
+far-away in the distance the scene was lost to view in a soft haziness.
+It was a grand sight. Millie was amazed and awe-struck. Silently she
+gazed around her, then, kneeling on her seat, leant her head over the
+parapet, and looked down on the river beneath. Phil noticed that she
+shivered.
+
+"You are cold, Millie," he said gently. "Hadn't we better go back now?"
+
+"No, not just yet," she replied. "It is only because the water looks so
+dark and gloomy in the shadow that I shiver. It looks hungry, too, as
+if it longed to open its mouth and swallow one up. Ah! Phil, I like the
+sea best. Listen now. I will tell you what I dreamed last night; then
+if you like we will go home." Millie paused a moment, then began:
+
+"I thought that you and I were living alone at Chormouth, in our old
+cottage, and on just such a lovely moonlight night as this we went
+walking on the cliffs together. The tide was out, and across the water,
+as far as ever we could see, stretched the silvery pathway that you
+know I used to think must lead to heaven. I thought so then, and I
+asked you to come with me and join mother there; for though we were
+very happy, we were often very lonely, and we longed to have her with
+us. You would not listen to me at first, but presently you said 'Yes.'
+So taking your hand, I ran with you across the sands, and without
+the least fear into the tiny rippling waves of the turning tide. But
+no sooner had our feet touched the water than a shadow seemed to bar
+the way. We looked up, and there was father standing with his arms
+stretched out to us.
+
+"'Father,' I cried, 'I am so glad to see you. You are come just in time
+to go with us to mother.'
+
+"I wasn't one bit surprised to see him, you know, although I knew quite
+well that he had been wrecked. Well, he stood still with his arms
+spread out and did not move. Then in a minute or two, he cried with the
+tears running down his cheeks:
+
+"'Children, I can't go; I don't know the way. Come back with me and
+teach me, and then, when I have learnt, we three will go together!'
+
+"At that I sprang into his arms, and kissed him, and said I would wait
+till he too was ready, and I held out my hand to you again, Phil, but
+you—" Millie's voice dropped to a whisper—"but you were gone. I could
+not see you anywhere; you were not in the shadow, nor in the moonlight.
+Then I called out loud for you, and I suppose that woke me; for the
+next minute I heard you say:
+
+"'All right, Millie, I'm awake.'
+
+"And then I knew that I had been dreaming."
+
+"That was a strange dream," said Phil musingly. "It was striking six,
+I remember, when I heard you calling me just as you always do, this
+morning, so that you see was caused by the force of habit. But the
+first part of your dream was ghostly, Millie. We won't talk about it
+any more. Let us go home."
+
+"It was not ghostly to me; it was a very beautiful dream, and I was
+only sorry when I woke," said Millie, rising. "Somehow it makes me
+believe just as mother did, that father is living, and will come back
+to us some day, as," she added, reverently folding her hands, "I pray
+God he may."
+
+Well might Phil wish that he had his sister's hopeful, trusting spirit.
+He sighed as he watched her; then with a "Come, Millie," he hooked his
+arm in hers, and they turned towards home.
+
+They had not gone many steps before they were met by a lady and
+gentleman. The former looked hard at Millie, then stopped, exclaiming:
+
+"Why, Millie, is that you?"
+
+Millie's joyous "O Miss Crawford" was answer enough.
+
+"I suppose Phil brought you to get a little fresh air," she said with a
+smile. "I am glad of that, it will do you good."
+
+Without speaking, Phil doffed his cap, and stood awkwardly by, while
+Millie eagerly answered Miss Crawford's questions.
+
+"Will you come to tea with me on Monday afternoon?" said that young
+lady to Millie. "I shall expect you at four o'clock, and you and I will
+take tea together on the lawn. You will like that, Millie?"
+
+The child's eyes sparkled.
+
+"Could you not manage to call for your sister about eight," continued
+Miss Crawford turning to Phil, "and see her safely home?"
+
+He mumbled a reply which Miss Crawford chose to consider an assent.
+Phil was always shy with strangers, and especially so when they were
+ladies.
+
+Then she wished the brother and sister good-bye, and as she walked away
+Phil heard her say to her companion, "That little girl shall be among
+our first batch, Sydney."
+
+"I wonder what she means," thought Phil to himself. But he said nothing
+to Millie, who trotted along chatting merrily till they reached their
+home in Swift Street.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration: She received her guest with a kind word of welcome.]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA.
+
+THE following Monday was indeed a red-letter day in Millie Guntry's
+calendar. She put on her best dress, which, in spite of the care she
+had taken, was beginning to look shabby, and the pretty lace collar and
+cuffs that her mother had made for her. Nora Dickson called out when
+she met Millie on the stairs that she looked "quite a lady." Nora said
+it satirically; but it was the truth nevertheless.
+
+Millie had some little difficulty in finding Baverstock House, and
+it was with a trembling hand—for she felt extremely nervous—that she
+pulled the bell at the side of the high green gate.
+
+But when the gate was opened, she thought at first she was in
+fairyland! Who would have expected to see so green a spot in such a
+crowded, noisy neighbourhood? The house was a large old-fashioned
+building, with ivy and many kinds of creepers climbing up its walls,
+and around the pillars of the doorway. In the front of the house
+stretched a velvety lawn, and the high wall that surrounded it was
+thickly covered with more ivy and creepers. In the centre of the
+garden a pretty fountain threw up its silvery spray in the sunshine.
+It made Millie feel cool even to look at it. In one corner of the lawn
+there grew a large mulberry tree, and there, under its shade, sat Miss
+Crawford in a low basket-chair at needlework. She received her guest
+with a kind word of welcome, and soon the little girl was seated by her
+friend and chatting away at her ease.
+
+Presently tea was brought out. Millie had not felt so hungry for months
+as she did at the sight of the delicate bread and butter, delicious
+strawberries, and rich light sponge cake.
+
+"O!" sighed Millie to herself. "If Phil were but here!"
+
+Miss Crawford was delighted at the child's evident pleasure. "Now,
+Millie, you are to make a good tea," she said, as she noticed that
+Millie ate her second slice of bread and butter with considerably less
+relish than the first.
+
+"Thank you," Millie replied, smiling gratefully; "but I haven't been
+very hungry lately. I think the hot weather has taken away my appetite."
+
+"Are you perfectly well, dear child?" Miss Crawford asked anxiously, as
+she looked at Millie's pale face.
+
+"I have bad headaches sometimes," she answered, "and I get tired so
+soon. But that is nothing; I am quite well, thank you."
+
+"Tell me truthfully, Millie, do you always have enough to eat?"
+
+Millie blushed and stammered, "I—I—Indeed, I don't think I could eat
+more if I had it: only uncle gives me so little money now, and Phil
+works so hard that, you know, he must have plenty of food to keep up
+his strength. Phil's wages will be raised soon, and then we shall get
+on better," she added cheerfully.
+
+"Your uncle gives you a certain sum weekly, I suppose?" Miss Crawford
+asked.
+
+"He does not give it me regularly—I wish he would," replied Millie.
+"And it's sometimes more, and sometimes less. I buy the food and the
+things that we use in the house, and he pays for the rooms—I mean—"
+She stopped in confusion as she remembered that only that very morning
+their landlady had told her that they owed nearly a month's rent, and
+if the money were not soon forthcoming they must leave. Poor Millie! As
+she thought of it all, the wearied look came back into her face.
+
+"Never mind, my child," said Miss Crawford, "we won't talk about
+disagreeable subjects now. I have a plan in my head to bring back the
+roses into your cheeks again. But as I may not be able to carry it out
+after all, I shall not tell you what it is; I don't want to disappoint
+you."
+
+"I can't leave uncle and Phil," said Millie, dreading she knew not what.
+
+Miss Crawford smiled and changed the conversation.
+
+"How is Phil getting on with his work?" she asked.
+
+Phil was an inexhaustible subject to his sister, for she never tired of
+talking of what he did, and what he knew. She now told Miss Crawford,
+as a great secret, how much Phil wished to continue the drawing lessons
+that he had begun at an evening class in Camberwell the previous
+winter, and how clever he already was with his pencil.
+
+"Why, Miss Crawford," said Millie, in a voice of profound admiration,
+"he actually drew me a lovely little picture of Chormouth Bay, with old
+John Linton the fisherman coming home with his boat full of mackerel.
+And all from memory!"
+
+"You must show it me, Millie, some day. Now, if you have quite finished
+your tea, I will have the table cleared."
+
+But they sat on in the pleasant garden till all the sunbeams had left
+it, then Miss Crawford took Millie indoors.
+
+If the garden had appeared lovely to the child, the house seemed still
+more beautiful. Once at Chormouth she recollected that she had been
+taken over "The Hall" by her mother, and on two or three occasions
+she had been in the library at Chormouth Vicarage. But here it was
+not grand and stately like "The Hall," nor small and cheerless like
+the Vicarage. The rooms in Miss Crawford's house were neither too
+large nor too small; the carpets were soft to the eye and soft to
+the touch—Millie could hardly hear her own footsteps as she walked.
+The furniture was substantial and comfortable; the pictures bright
+and cheerful—ah! Wouldn't Phil have liked to see those pictures! And
+flowers and ferns in rich profusion were standing in every available
+spot, shedding their gracefulness and sweet perfume upon all.
+
+"O! Miss Crawford," said Millie, drawing a long breath of admiration,
+"what a lovely house you have!"
+
+"I am glad you think so," Miss Crawford said smiling. "Now," she
+said, leading the way into the prettiest room of all, "this is my
+drawing-room. Sit down in that low chair in the corner there, Millie,
+and I will play and sing to you. My father and mother are away with my
+brother in the country, so that we shall not be disturbing anybody."
+
+So saying, she opened the piano, and sang in such a rich sweet voice
+that Millie started with surprise and pleasure. So distinctly too
+were the words pronounced that every syllable was heard. The first
+songs were light and cheerful. These were succeeded by those grand but
+touching lines:—
+
+   "Break, break, break,
+      On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
+    And I would that my tongue could utter
+      The thoughts that arise in me.
+
+   "O well for the fisherman's boy,
+      That he shouts with his sister at play!
+    O well for the sailor lad,
+      That he sings in his boat on the bay!
+
+   "And the stately ships go on
+      To their haven under the hill;
+    But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
+      And the sound of a voice that is still!
+
+   "Break, break, break,
+      At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
+    But the tender grace of a day that is dead
+      Will never come back to me."
+
+The music and the words went straight to the little listener's heart.
+They took her in spirit to Chormouth—to the little cottage there, and
+to its beloved inmates. In spite of her efforts to prevent them the
+tears would come. She could just manage to keep from sobbing aloud, and
+that was all.
+
+At the end of the song Miss Crawford paused. In a few minutes, however,
+she began again with that beautiful air from Mendelssohn's oratorio of
+"Elijah," "O rest in the Lord."
+
+"'O rest in the Lord,'" repeated Millie softly to herself, "'wait
+patiently for Him.' Yes, yes, I will."
+
+Then came the blessed promise, "'And He shall give thee thy heart's
+desire.'"
+
+There was no bitterness nor heartache in her tears after that. She
+had but to wait, and her heart's desire would be granted, her heart's
+desire for Phil—for her uncle, and for herself that she might become
+more unselfish, more patient, more content, more like the Lord Jesus,
+Whose little child she was. Millie, as she heard the sweet comforting
+words, bowed her head and turned them into a prayer.
+
+A slight noise made her look up. A tall gentleman came quietly into the
+room. He did not observe Millie in her dark corner; he walked straight
+to the piano and stood behind the player till the last sounds of the
+music had died away. In the silence that followed—for Miss Crawford's
+voice had grown husky, and she paused to let it regain its accustomed
+tone—he bent down and kissed her, saying as he did so:
+
+"Thank you, that does bring rest indeed!"
+
+"Is that you, Sydney?" Miss Crawford exclaimed, as she rose quickly
+from her seat. "I did not expect you just yet. Ah! You are tired—very
+tired, are you not?" she asked, looking closely at him in the dusk.
+
+"Rather. I have had hard work at the hospital to-day," he replied.
+"Several poor fellows who had been wounded in a machinery accident were
+brought in. Two have died. We have hopes that the others will do well."
+
+"How dreadful!" said Miss Crawford. "I do not wonder that you are tired
+and worn out. There, sit down," she continued, as she wheeled towards
+him a comfortable arm-chair, "and rest yourself. For the present I
+must attend to another visitor. Millie, come here and speak to this
+gentleman."
+
+Millie came from her corner, feeling glad that the twilight hid her
+tear-stained face. Now that she was nearer to him, she thought she
+recognised the gentleman, and then she remembered she had seen him with
+Miss Crawford on Waterloo Bridge.
+
+To Millie's surprise, he asked her a great many questions—odd questions
+she thought them. Where did she live? Had they a good supply of fresh
+water for their use? How large was the room in which she slept? Did she
+keep her window open night and day? He shook his head and looked very
+grave when he heard that her bedroom was little more than a cupboard,
+and that the window was so tiny as scarcely to admit any light at all.
+
+The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who came
+to say that Philip Guntry had called for his sister.
+
+"Then I suppose I must let you go, Millie," said Miss Crawford. "Say
+good-bye to Dr. Bethune."
+
+They found Phil in the study. He stood twirling his cap and looking as
+if he longed to be out of the house. Miss Crawford tried hard to put
+him at his ease, and so well did she succeed, that in a few minutes he
+was keeping Millie company in eating a slice of cake, while he talked
+eagerly and sensibly on a subject which was very dear to him—drawing.
+His eyes glistened with pleasure when Miss Crawford told him of a
+School of Art that he should attend when the autumn term began.
+Millie was glad that her dear Miss Crawford should see her brother
+for once as she so often saw him—with the heavy sullen look gone, and
+an intelligent animated expression in its place; with a ready smile
+playing around his lips, and with his black locks tossed back from his
+forehead.
+
+How Phil enjoyed that conversation! He was no longer anxious to get out
+of the house; indeed, he quite forgot where he was, and how time went.
+For the first time for many a long day he felt that somebody besides
+Millie was taking a pleasure in seeing him happy; was treating him as
+a rational, intelligent being, who had tastes to be cultivated, and
+abilities to be used. When his second piece of cake had disappeared,
+Miss Crawford went to a bookcase and took two books from its shelves.
+She handed one to Millie; the other she gave to Phil, saying:
+
+"I want you to keep this in memory of our pleasant chat. It is one of
+my favourites. I am sure you will like to read it. No, don't thank me,"
+she added hastily, as Phil uttered a delighted "O Miss Crawford!"
+
+"And don't open it till you get home."
+
+She went with them herself to the hall-door, tripped lightly across the
+lawn, gave Phil a warm shake of the hand, pressed a kiss upon Millie's
+forehead, opened the gate, and as they passed out, her last words rang
+in their ears, "Good-bye, I shall see you again soon. Remember I am
+always your friend."
+
+Well may your heart be blithe and happy, dear Minnie Crawford, and well
+may you feel blessed in your home and the world. For in giving largely
+of your cheering sympathy, in ministering to the wants of the sick and
+the poor, in scattering a sunbeam here and a gladness there, you are
+giving forth the good measure that is returned unto your own heart,
+"pressed down, and shaken together, and running over."
+
+Phil walked away from Baverstock House that evening feeling that the
+world had suddenly changed to him. He had a sympathising friend at
+last. He could have fallen down and kissed the feet of her who had
+spoken so winningly and kindly to him. He had not been so light-hearted
+since the old days at Chormouth.
+
+In spite of Miss Crawford's injunction the brother and sister halted
+under the first lamp-post to take a peep at their books. Phil was all
+impatience to know what his was about, though had it not been that his
+spirit was infectious, it would have been enough for Millie to feast
+her eyes on the pretty blue cover of hers. Phil uttered a long "O!"
+of joyful anticipation as he saw the title, "The Early Lives of Great
+Painters," and Millie read aloud the golden letters on the cover of her
+book, "Ministering Children."
+
+"'Ministering Children'! What are ministering children, Phil?" she
+asked wonderingly.
+
+"Why," he replied, looking fondly at her, "they are children like you,
+Millie."
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL.
+
+PHIL went about his work in much better spirits after his visit to
+Miss Crawford. It seemed strange to him now that he had once felt so
+ungracious and unfriendly towards her. He did not know her then; that
+was it. He had thought she was a fine lady who patronised her poorer
+neighbours, and Phil's English heart revolted against the idea. When
+he saw that she met him on the equal ground of their common humanity,
+talked to him of his great longing to become an artist, sympathised
+with him that he could not continue his education, and devised plans
+for his self-improvement, then Phil's gratitude and affection flowed
+out to her like a river, and next to Millie she had the warmest place
+in his heart. Millie he could love, and pet, and caress, but she was
+as simple as a baby, and sadly ignorant of many things that he had at
+his tongue's end. Now in Miss Crawford, he had found a friend older and
+wiser than himself, one who would direct him, and tell him how best to
+get the help he needed to carry on the studies which, notwithstanding
+the difficulties attending the resolution, he determined should still
+be pursued.
+
+In his new-found happiness even Phil's temper improved. He was more
+respectful to his uncle; and, one evening after supper, actually
+volunteered to read aloud to him from his new book. Richard Hunt was
+but little interested, however, and was soon snoring an accompaniment
+to his nephew's not unmusical voice. Nevertheless his attempts to
+conquer the sullen indifference with which he had invariably treated
+his uncle, who certainly did little to merit the boy's respect, met
+with their own reward. Phil was happier, as we all are for trying to do
+right, and Millie's face grew daily more and more cheerful.
+
+"If uncle would but be always sober and give me enough money to keep
+house with properly, how happy we should be!" she thought.
+
+She had heard no more from their landlady respecting their arrears of
+rent, but she noticed that her uncle's watch was missing, and rightly
+guessed that it had been pawned to meet the debt.
+
+August was not yet over, when one day Phil, coming in to dinner, found
+Miss Crawford and Millie together.
+
+"Ah! Phil," said Miss Crawford, holding out her hand—which he was proud
+enough to take, though he wished his own had been cleaner to meet
+it—"you are the very boy I was wishing to see. Here is your sister
+quite unmanageable this morning. No, Millie, you be quiet," she added,
+as Millie opened her mouth to utter an emphatic denial of the charge
+that was brought against her. "I will tell your brother, and you will
+see that his opinion entirely agrees with mine;" and she nodded her
+head merrily.
+
+"Now listen, Phil. These are the facts of the case. Dr. Bethune, a
+friend of mine, whom Millie knows, has bought a lovely cottage at
+Bournemouth for the express purpose of accommodating any little sick
+folks that may happen to need a change of air. An old woman—and a
+very kind one she is, too—has been put in this cottage to nurse those
+children who are weakly enough to require nursing, and to see that all
+are happy and well cared for. Now, Dr. Bethune is going to send off
+three of his little patients who have been ill, but there is room for
+a fourth visitor, and he and I both wish Millie to make that fourth.
+But I cannot get her even to listen to me. She says such a thing is
+simply impossible; and when I argue the point, she overwhelms me with
+solemn assertions that you and your uncle would starve to death in
+her absence, turn the house out of window, and commit all kinds of
+absurdities. Now, just tell her that she is a conceited little woman,
+and that you can keep house almost as well as she can."
+
+"Yes, indeed, you ought to go," said Phil heartily. "You know you
+have been ailing ever since aunt died. The sea air will set you up
+splendidly for next winter. I think, Miss Crawford," he continued,
+turning to her, and lowering his voice, "Millie is afraid that uncle
+and I shall quarrel, but I promise I will do my very best to keep the
+peace."
+
+But Millie still hesitated.
+
+"Do go, there's a darling," Phil said coaxingly. "'Tisn't like stopping
+away for ever, you know."
+
+"Well, she need not decide now," said Miss Crawford; "and, indeed,
+nothing can be arranged till we know what your uncle says about it.
+You had better talk it over when you are all three together, and then,
+Phil, you must come over to my house and tell me what you have decided
+to do."
+
+Phil readily promised he would do so.
+
+"Isn't she a darling?" cried Millie enthusiastically, when Miss
+Crawford had gone.
+
+"She is more than that," replied Phil slowly, "she is an—an angel."
+
+He had tried to find a comparison that was less common, but he could
+think of none other that was so appropriate.
+
+Phil did all in his power to persuade Millie to go to Bournemouth, but
+she was most unwilling to consent. She shook her head in reply to all
+his arguments, and said that she could promise nothing till she had
+spoken to her uncle, for whose return they waited long that night.
+
+It was past midnight when at last he came. Then his unsteady footsteps
+and thick hoarse voice told the children only too plainly that he
+was the worse for drink. He went straight to his own room, and threw
+himself upon his bed. Millie was relieved that he had done so.
+She could not bear to see the wretched degraded object that he so
+frequently made himself.
+
+"There," said Phil, as they heard his footsteps pass the door of their
+living-room, "we must put off speaking to him till to-morrow. Go to bed
+now, dear. For my part I shall sleep here."
+
+With which he placed a couple of chairs side by side, and threw himself
+upon them. It was a hard bed, but he preferred it to sharing his
+uncle's room.
+
+
+It was not until two days after that Phil trudged joyfully off to
+Baverstock House to tell Miss Crawford their uncle had given his
+consent to her kind proposal, and that Millie had at last been
+persuaded to go to the seaside.
+
+Miss Crawford was at home, and delighted to hear that she should now be
+able to give her little protégée the benefit of a change of air.
+
+She told Phil she intended to take the children herself to Bournemouth,
+and see them comfortably established in the cottage. Then she went
+on to say that Dr. Bethune had long wished to carry out this idea of
+sending his little convalescent patients to the country, but want of
+means had hitherto prevented it. It was owing to the fact that a sum of
+money—a thank-offering for recovery from a dangerous illness—had been
+placed at his disposal that he was at length enabled to put his scheme
+into execution.
+
+As Miss Crawford talked to him, Phil remembered her remark to the
+gentleman who had been her companion on Waterloo Bridge. Her words had
+puzzled him at the time: he understood them now.
+
+"Do you think you could bring Millie's box and meet us at Waterloo
+Station on Thursday?" Miss Crawford asked him presently.
+
+"I will try," replied Phil. "At what time ought I to be there?"
+
+"The train leaves at one o'clock, but you had better be at the station
+by half-past twelve. Is that an inconvenient hour for you?"
+
+"I think I can manage it," said Phil. "We are not busy at the shop in
+the middle of the day. I dare say they'll give me extra time if I stay
+later at night to make up for it."
+
+"Very well, then, I shall consider it settled. Stay, here is a shilling
+to pay for the cab."
+
+"The box won't be heavy. I can carry it, thank you," said Phil, drawing
+back.
+
+Miss Crawford saw that he preferred to be independent, and did not
+press the matter.
+
+"Now, Phil," she said, as he rose to leave, "I have a parcel for you to
+take home. It is a present for Millie."
+
+The boy crimsoned to the very roots of his hair.
+
+"You are very kind, Miss Crawford," he stammered, "but uncle gave
+Millie some money last night to get some things for herself. I—I think
+she has everything, thank you. You have been—you are—" In his pride and
+his confusion Phil broke down.
+
+"Phil," said Miss Crawford, laying her soft white hand on his shoulder,
+"I understand you, and I admire your independent spirit. But don't you
+know that we are put into the world to bear one another's burdens, and
+to help each other? But how can I help you, if you won't let me? If I
+were poor, and you were rich, would you not give to me?"
+
+Would he not? She read the answer in the shining depths of his earnest,
+loving eyes.
+
+"And, Phil," she continued in a minute or two, "you will be dull
+without Millie. Here is an old drawing-box of my own that I should like
+to give you. It may amuse you in your spare time."
+
+She broke off his thanks, and he went home—heavy-handed, but
+light-hearted.
+
+Great was Millie's gratitude for the contents of that parcel. The
+little serge dress, broad-brimmed hat, and thick pair of boots were
+most acceptable—more acceptable even than Miss Crawford believed
+they would be. Her uncle had certainly given her a small sum, but it
+had been barely sufficient to pay for the pair of stockings and the
+dress that were absolute necessities. The only pair of boots that she
+possessed were so old that she feared that she must ask Phil, or her
+uncle, to get her some new ones. Yet she could not bear the idea of
+doing so; for, as it was, Phil gave up every penny that he earned, and
+had she gone to her uncle she knew that the only way in which he could
+have supplied her need would be to pawn another of their few remaining
+pieces of furniture. So to Millie Miss Crawford's present brought great
+relief and joy, and she received it with no feeling save that of loving
+gratitude.
+
+
+On the appointed day, Phil, having obtained permission to extend his
+dinner hour, reached home in a great hurry, to find Millie ready and
+waiting for him. She had had her dinner, but she was so excited at the
+prospect of the journey, and so anxious for the welfare of those whom
+she would leave behind, that eating was a difficult matter. Phil took
+a mouthful as he stood, put some bread and cheese into his pocket, and
+shouldered his sister's box.
+
+Millie had made many friends in the short time that she had lived in
+Swift Street. Now they all gathered round her to wish her a pleasant
+journey, and to say good-bye. Even the rough rude Nora Dickson said
+with something very like a sob in her voice:
+
+"Good-bye, Millie. I'm real sorry to lose you, that I am."
+
+"It won't be for long," called out Millie cheerfully. "I'm glad to go,
+of course, for some things, but I'd sooner stay here, after all."
+
+Phil thought that he never should get her away, but at last the
+good-byes were all said and Millie was trotting along by his side. It
+was an intensely hot day: the sun beat down upon them with an ardour
+that was almost unbearable; the pavement seemed to scorch their feet.
+There was not a breath of air stirring; not a breeze from the river
+even lightened the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. Phil sighed for
+the different scene that would soon gladden his sister's eyes.
+
+"Bring me home some seaweed, darling," he said; "I'll bury my nose in
+it, and 'twill seem like a whiff from old Father Neptune himself."
+
+"I wish you were coming too, Phil," she said wistfully.
+
+"Nonsense," he replied, forcing himself to speak lightly. "You'll have
+plenty of company without me, I'll be bound. I dare say Miss Crawford
+will stay with you a good part of the time. O! Millie," he added,
+as a sudden recollection struck him, "Bournemouth is such a pretty
+place. One of the men in the shop used to live there, and he says it's
+perfectly lovely. Write and tell me all about it, won't you?"
+
+She could only nod a reply, for they had arrived at the station, and
+there was Miss Crawford waiting on the platform.
+
+"Good children to be punctual," she said. "I expect the others every
+minute. One of them is a little cripple, so his mother will bring him
+in a cab. Dr. Bethune promised to see the other two safely here. Now,
+Phil," she continued, "don't you think it will be wiser for you not to
+wait? I will take good care of Millie, I assure you."
+
+"Yes, perhaps it would. The parting must come. It would do no good to
+linger over it."
+
+Something called away Miss Crawford's attention, or she made believe
+it did, while Millie and Phil said good-bye to each other. Phil had
+no idea it would be such hard work to give his sister that last kiss.
+They had never been separated for a single day before, and now that
+Millie was starting in real earnest, he almost wished that he had never
+persuaded her to leave him, even for so short a time as a fortnight.
+However, he would not let her see how much he felt it. He gave her a
+last loving look, a hurried kiss, and was gone.
+
+He could not return the same way by which he and Millie had come
+together. He chose another road that would take him back to Oxford
+Street by a less familiar route than up Drury Lane. It seemed to Phil
+that, with the loss of his sister, his guardian angel had left him.
+With a sinking heart he thought of the lonely evenings that would now
+be his, and of the long hours of weary waiting for his uncle's return
+at night. How difficult it would be to "keep the peace" after all! Poor
+Phil! With Millie gone, he felt that he had no good influence at work
+to aid him in resisting the temptation to indulge in sullenness and
+discontent. He was helpless indeed, for he knew not how to obtain that
+strength which "is made perfect in weakness."
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD.
+
+BIG BEN was striking ten as Phil reached home that night. He had stayed
+over time at business to compensate for his long absence in the middle
+of the day, and had walked leisurely back to Swift Street. He did not
+care to hurry himself, for he knew that Millie would not be awaiting
+him, and even Miss Crawford's drawing-box could not make up for her
+absence.
+
+On entering the room he found his uncle already there. He was seated
+at the table with bread and cheese and a jug of ale before him. Phil
+saw by his heated face and bloodshot eyes that he had been drinking. A
+feeling of intense disgust and dislike arose in the boy's heart, but he
+said nothing. He took a chair and sat down as far-away from the table
+as he could.
+
+"Come here, can't you?" said his uncle.
+
+"Yes, when you have finished," replied his nephew coolly.
+
+"O! O!" returned his uncle in what he intended to be a satirical voice,
+but his words were so indistinct that Phil could hardly catch them, "so
+you're such a grand gentleman that you can't eat with poor men like
+your relations. A pity you should be dependent upon them, isn't it?"
+
+Phil started up with an angry retort upon his lips, when lo! Millie's
+gentle face and pleading eyes arose in his memory. He sat down again,
+and was silent.
+
+"Come here, I say, can't you?" began Richard Hunt again.
+
+"No, I won't," said Phil doggedly. "Take your own time; when you have
+finished, I'll have my supper."
+
+"If you don't come to the table this minute, I'll turn you out of my
+house, do you hear?" growled the wretched man.
+
+"No, you'll not turn me out, for I'll go of my own accord," cried Phil,
+his subdued passion breaking suddenly forth. "I'll rub along somehow
+till Millie comes back, and then she shall choose between you and me.
+But mind, the moment I can offer her a decent home, no power of yours
+shall keep us apart. I'll have her then, whether you will or no."
+
+Never before had Phil spoken to him in that manner. For a moment he was
+literally struck dumb with amazement. Then he shouted in a fury of rage
+and drunkenness:
+
+"You dare to speak to me like that?"
+
+"Yes, I dare," returned Phil, with flashing eyes.
+
+"Then I'll—I'll—"
+
+Rising from his chair, he staggered towards his nephew, who stood with
+his arms folded across his breast, biting his lips and breathing hard,
+as he watched his uncle's approach. But Phil was not a coward, and
+there was no trace of fear upon his countenance.
+
+It was by no means a dignified or safe proceeding on Mr. Hunt's part.
+The floor appeared to be swaying beneath his feet, and he clutched
+hurriedly at the table, at the wall, at anything, in fact, that would
+support his unsteady steps. He was close upon Phil, and had raised his
+arm as if to strike him, when he suddenly lost his balance. To recover
+it, he grasped, as he thought, the little shelf on which Millie kept
+her books. Instead of that, however, his hand descended heavily upon
+Miss Crawford's drawing-box which had been placed there for safety, and
+which, being wider than the shelf, projected some little distance from
+it. There was a crash—down tumbled the box, and down went Richard Hunt
+at full length upon the floor.
+
+It was useless to give vent to his anger in words. Phil silently picked
+up the scattered paints and pencils, and replaced them in the box.
+
+His uncle made a few desperate struggles to regain his feet, but
+finding that impossible, he turned over on his side, and lay there a
+most deplorable object. He muttered a few incoherent words, but they
+gradually ceased, and, to his nephew's disgust, he was soon snoring
+heavily.
+
+[Illustration: As Phil was about to extinguish the light,
+ a sudden thought struck him.]
+
+"Will nothing bring him to his senses?" said Phil to himself, as, his
+passion having subsided, he glanced with loathing at the unconscious
+object of his remarks. "He gets worse and worse. I cannot stay here
+alone with him. I'd sooner sleep under an archway, or in any hole I can
+creep into, than with such a wretch as that. I'll put out the candle in
+case of accident, and be off."
+
+As Phil was about to extinguish the light, a sudden thought struck him.
+His uncle had a deep and intense horror of fire; had always had indeed
+since the terrible accident that had killed his little baby-girl. A
+good blaze would frighten his uncle out of his wits, or perhaps into
+them, and Phil smiled grimly at his miserable joke. Besides he felt
+that it would be a sweet revenge for those insulting words that his
+uncle had cast at him. If only he could manage to kindle a fire that
+would do no damage to the house, and yet be sufficient to lighten up
+the room brilliantly, and restore his uncle to his senses!
+
+Well would it have been for Phil had he resolutely put aside the evil
+desires that prompted him! Little did he know what misery and trouble
+he was bringing upon himself and others by indulging in that wicked
+spirit of hatred and revenge. Millie! Millie! Is your dear presence
+so near, and yet has your gentle face no power to stop him? See, Phil
+studies how best he can put his plan into execution, but for some time,
+he shakes his head negatively at each suggestion.
+
+"I have it," he exclaims at last.
+
+In the fender, piled up for the morning's use, are a number of little
+bits of dry wood, and a heap of straw and shavings, which Millie had
+considerately put there before she left. With trembling fingers Phil
+places the candlestick in the fender, and builds around it with the
+sticks and shavings, till only half the candle, which is a long one, is
+visible above the heap. It will blaze up finely presently, he thinks.
+His uncle will be sure to wake and the flames will frighten him well
+night to death—and Phil laughs triumphantly. Perhaps he'll be sober
+for a good while after that. Anyhow it shall be a lesson to him. Then
+surveying his work with a wicked delight, and with a last glance at
+his uncle, who is still snoring on the floor, he goes out of the room
+resolving to spend the night as best he can in the streets.
+
+On the landing he pauses. Something whispers him to enter the tiny
+room belonging to his sister. Would that he had yielded to that better
+impulse!
+
+But no, he creeps downstairs, and passes unnoticed into the narrow
+street, where he mingles with the noisy crowd. He runs hither and
+thither in his excitement. His blood is tingling with a savage pleasure
+at the thought of the deed which he has just accomplished. He gloats
+over it, and laughs aloud as he pictures what will happen by-and-by in
+Swift Street. But presently getting very warm and very tired, he leans
+against a door-post to rest himself; and with quietness and reflection
+a feeling comes over him that after all he has done a childish and a
+foolish thing. The little pile of sticks and rubbish will blaze away
+around the hissing candle for a few minutes, and then die out again,
+while his uncle, unconscious even of the event, will remain undisturbed.
+
+And now that he has carried out his grand speech about leaving home,
+what is he to do? He knows of no place where he can pass the night. He
+has read of archways under which little homeless children creep for
+shelter, but just now he cannot recall to his memory the situation of a
+single one. Besides, to lie in the open air and the dirt, with anybody
+that might choose to keep him company! He grows sick at the very idea.
+He has fourpence in his pocket. It will be a rough lodging that so
+small a sum can procure, but that is what he must seek, he supposes. He
+need not go in search of it just at present, however. He has plenty of
+time and he will put off the evil moment as long as possible.
+
+So he wanders disconsolately up and down the Strand, watching the
+people as they come out of the theatres, and drive away in their
+carriages. A young lady with fair hair and a pretty face reminds him
+of Miss Crawford. Phil cannot bear to think of her. What would she say
+if she knew how he had been keeping his promise to her and Millie? How
+disappointed she will be in him! She will never believe him, never
+trust in him again.
+
+With fresh anguish at his heart, he leaves the noisy crowded Strand,
+goes down Wellington Street, and passes on to Waterloo Bridge, just as
+he had done with Millie on that moonlight night a few weeks ago. On the
+very same seat that they had occupied then, he sits down now. Poor boy!
+Already he regrets the hasty measures that he has taken, but his pride
+is too great to allow him to return to his uncle. Big Ben's ruddy face
+tells him that it is not yet twelve. How slowly the time goes! There
+will be hours yet before morning. He buries his face in his hands and
+acknowledges how foolishly he has behaved. Conscience whispers him to
+forget his uncle's words and go back to Swift Street. Again his pride
+refuses to let him, and he remains there seated on the bridge.
+
+Presently there flashes across his memory the story of Millie's dream.
+She had said, "I stretched out my hand to you again, Phil, but you were
+gone; I could not see you anywhere."
+
+Suppose that dream meant something after all—that his father and mother
+and sister would all meet together some day in another world, and that
+he would be shut out from their company, and left alone. It was likely
+enough to happen, Phil groaned in his misery. He guessed, if the truth
+were known, that he and his uncle were suitable companions for each
+other. He was going to the bad as fast as he could go. And yet he had
+intended to do well. Miss Crawford had bidden him take heart, and lead
+a nobler, a more unselfish life. Not in so many words, perhaps, but
+Phil had understood her meaning and had pledged himself to fulfil her
+wishes. Here was a fine ending to his grand resolutions!
+
+Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. He would go back and take up
+his life from where he had left it only a couple of hours ago. Most
+probably his uncle would have forgotten their quarrel, and the bitter
+words that had been uttered on both sides. And he would try to do
+better. Ah! If only Millie had not gone! But perhaps God would help
+him if he asked Him. Miss Crawford believed in God, he knew, and so
+did Millie. With that thought, he turned his back to the pavement, and
+with his eyes fixed on the starry sky, he humbly prayed that God would
+forgive, and bless, and help him. Then, with a heavy heart, he retraced
+his footsteps.
+
+What is the cry which he hears as he once more emerges into the busy
+Strand? He stands still to listen—"Fire! Fire!"
+
+Surely—? O! No, not that; not his work. God forbid! Phil, always fleet
+of foot, flies like lightning towards home. How dear the place has
+suddenly become to him!
+
+"Fire! Fire!" is still the shout.
+
+He is in the midst of a crowd now, but he dives under the elbow of one
+and pushes aside another with a strength that astonishes even himself.
+
+"Fire! Fire!"
+
+"Where?" some one asks.
+
+"In Swift Street," is the reply.
+
+Phil hears, and the words enter his heart like a sword. He is quickly
+there. Yes, yes, it is, as something had seemed to tell him from that
+first cry of "Fire! Fire!"
+
+Smoke and flames are issuing from the top story of one of the
+houses—their house. The inmates are rushing from it, and from the
+neighbouring dwellings, in terrible confusion. Little children, with
+just a shawl or a blanket wrapped around them, are handed over to the
+excited crowd; men and women, half dressed, are huddling together with
+pale terrified faces, or running hither and thither to see that their
+friends are in safety. Phil makes his way through the throng of people
+to where a little group are gathered around a man who lies in a half
+unconscious state upon the ground.
+
+"Uncle," shrieks Phil, "I have killed you." But nobody in the
+excitement and bustle of the moment heeds that bitter cry of remorse.
+
+At the familiar voice, Richard Hunt opens his eyes, and says hoarsely:
+
+"The little lass! Save her, Phil!"
+
+"She is away—at Bournemouth. Don't you remember?"
+
+"No, not gone—come back—save her," he replies, and then sinks back
+exhausted.
+
+With a bound Phil gains the door of their house, from which smoke is
+now rapidly issuing. Eager hands are put forth to hold him back, but
+before they can prevent it, he is rushing up the narrow staircase in
+frantic haste. Hotter grows the air as he ascends. He can scarcely
+breathe now. O the cruel flames that lick around him! With a desperate
+struggle, he reaches the last flight. What is this bundle on the
+topmost stair? It is she—Millie in her little white night-dress; her
+long hair floating down her back, her small hands folded in prayer.
+
+"'Tis I—Phil," he shouts. "I'll save you, Millie."
+
+But she is dead, or in a faint, and does not hear him. He snatches her
+from the ground, and taking her in his arms, gropes his way through the
+smoke that almost suffocates him. Down the stairs he goes, staggering
+beneath the weight of his load. His heart beats wildly and he feels his
+strength failing him. O, he must hold out a moment longer; he is nearly
+at the bottom.
+
+He hears a sudden cry from without—"The engine! The engine!"
+
+Friends are cheering him on—"Bravo! Well done, brave boy," they shout.
+
+Thank God! The air grows cooler. Only a few more steps and then—a crash
+from above, and a burning beam comes tumbling down. Phil sees the
+danger, and bends his body forward to avert the blow from his precious
+burden. He sinks beneath the weight of the descending wood; but even
+as he falls, a couple of brave firemen rush to the rescue. They throw
+off the blazing log, raise the fearless boy—helpless and unconscious
+now—and carry both children in safety to the open air.
+
+The fireman who holds Millie in his arms thinks at first that she is
+dead, but she has only fainted. She is not burnt, her night-dress is
+hardly scorched; some of her pretty hair is singed, "that is all," the
+people say. How they clap and cheer the brave men who have saved them!
+But their loudest cheers are for Phil himself, who lies there so white
+and still—for Phil, whose noble act of heroism will never pass from the
+memories of those who witnessed it.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+IN THE HOSPITAL.
+
+IT was many hours before Phil regained consciousness.
+
+He opened his eyes to find himself occupying a bed in a hospital ward.
+How came he there? He wondered—and O! What a fearful pain quivered in
+his right shoulder and down his back! By his bedside stood a gentleman
+who met his questioning glance with a smile, and said gently:
+
+"You are in safe hands, Phil. I think you have heard my name before. I
+am Dr. Bethune, Miss Crawford's friend."
+
+"What is the matter with me? Who brought me here?" Phil asked faintly.
+
+"Don't you remember? Your house caught fire, and in saving your sister,
+you got badly burnt."
+
+Yes, Phil remembered now. The hot blood rushed to his face, and then
+receded, leaving him deadly pale.
+
+"Don't talk, my boy," said Dr. Bethune. "I will explain it to you,
+and then you must lie still, and try to go to sleep. Millie is well
+and uninjured. You saved her life. Had it not been for your heroism
+and noble self-forgetfulness, she must have perished in the fire.
+Unfortunately a burning piece of wood fell upon your shoulder before
+you reached the bottom of the stairs. I fear you will have a good deal
+of pain to bear, but we are clever people here, and mean to pull you
+through if such a thing be possible."
+
+"I don't understand," said Phil feebly and making long pauses between
+each sentence, "I don't understand how Millie came to be at home. I
+thought she had gone away with Miss Crawford. I took her to the station
+myself."
+
+"And they would have gone, Phil, but at the last minute it was found
+impossible for one of the children, a little crippled boy, to leave
+London until the following day. He could not travel alone, and Miss
+Crawford thought it better to wait for him. So Millie went home again."
+
+Phil closed his eyes. His throbbing head would not let him think, and
+the pain in his back made him sick and faint. He tried to move, but
+with a low moan of agony, he gave up the attempt, and lay with a white
+face and knitted brow, trying to bear his suffering as best he might.
+
+"Poor fellow!" said Dr. Bethune compassionately. Then he gave him a
+draught that seemed to have the effect of deadening his pain, for
+presently he fell asleep.
+
+
+Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon
+as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she
+looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The
+only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had
+saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some
+sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at
+Chormouth:
+
+   "'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for
+his friends.'"
+
+He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have
+been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and
+begged her to explain the mystery.
+
+She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their
+party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for
+all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on
+to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and
+with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her
+uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell
+that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to
+her room and lie down.
+
+Very soon she fell into a sound sleep—so sound a sleep, indeed, that
+even the crash of the drawing-box as it tumbled to the floor did not
+disturb her. Poor child! She was accustomed to noises all day and
+all night. She awoke to find herself half suffocated with smoke; and
+great was her horror, on opening the door, to see their sitting-room
+in flames. She endeavoured to escape down the staircase, but fear
+paralysed her limbs, and she sank senseless to the floor.
+
+Phil knew what followed.
+
+She supposed her uncle awoke on the first alarm of fire, and in the
+confusion and terror of the moment completely forgot her. But, Millie
+said, he had scarcely mentioned the awful occurrences of that night,
+and she dared not break upon his reserve, and question him.
+
+Phil rarely spoke to the doctors and nurses, except to thank them for
+their kindness and attention. To Dr. Bethune, however, he sometimes
+opened his heart.
+
+"Will you tell me the truth, Sir?" he said one day, as Dr. Bethune
+stood by his bedside. "Will you tell me if there is any hope for me?"
+
+"I can hardly say at present, Phil," the doctor replied. "Yours is a
+very bad case, and we do not see the improvement that we expected; but
+there is no immediate danger. When there is, you shall know, I promise
+you. All that human skill can do for you will be done, rest assured of
+that."
+
+For a few minutes Phil neither moved nor spoke. Then he said:
+
+"I should like to see Miss Crawford, Sir. I have something to tell her
+in case I should die. Do you think she will come?"
+
+"I am sure she will. You shall see her to-morrow."
+
+Phil smiled gratefully.
+
+
+The doctor was as good as his word. He carried Phil's message that same
+evening to Miss Crawford, and early on the following day she was at the
+boy's bedside. To his amazement she took his scorched, blistered hand
+in hers, and reverently kissed it.
+
+Phil pulled it hastily away.
+
+"Don't do that, Miss Crawford," he said. "You don't know what you are
+doing."
+
+"Yes, I do," she answered, with tears in her eyes, "for I know you to
+be such a brave, fearless boy, that I am proud to own you as my friend."
+
+A sob rose in Phil's throat.
+
+"Miss Crawford, if you don't want me to die of shame, don't speak so,"
+he said humbly. "It is because you don't know that you say so. I asked
+to see you because I could not die with the dreadful load there is upon
+my conscience. I tried to tell Dr. Bethune, but I couldn't get out the
+words. O Miss Crawford, you will hate me so when you hear it."
+
+"Hush, my boy! You must talk quietly if you wish to keep me here," she
+said very soothingly. "I promised Dr. Bethune that I would not let you
+get excited. You are not quite yourself, or you would not say such
+things."
+
+Phil strove to subdue his agitation.
+
+"Lean down closer, Miss Crawford," he said, after a few minutes, "I
+don't want anybody but you to hear. There, let your hand stay under
+mine, so," and Phil laid his on the top of hers, "and when you begin to
+hate me, draw it away; but let me keep it till you do begin to hate me,
+won't you?"
+
+In broken sentences, and with many interruptions, Phil got through his
+story. He need not have feared: Miss Crawford did not withdraw her
+hand; only when he arrived at the very saddest part of all, and he knew
+that she could guess the end, her other hand came to keep the first one
+company. With so gentle a touch did she place it upon Phil's that it
+did not hurt him in the least, while in a voice of infinite pity, and
+with the tears running down her cheeks, she said:
+
+"Poor boy, poor boy! And you went through all that!"
+
+It was over at last. Phil felt inexpressibly relieved that he had
+unburdened his mind, and confessed his sin.
+
+"Phil," said Miss Crawford presently, "I cannot help thinking how good
+God has been to you. Have you thanked Him?"
+
+"Yes, indeed, I have," he replied. "But sometimes I wish that after I
+had saved Millie, He had let me die. Nobody wants me here. I am no good
+to anybody."
+
+"Don't talk so, dear boy. What, would you have Millie left alone in the
+world?"
+
+"No, that is all I care to live for," he answered sorrowfully; "for
+though I have troubled her so, I know it would break her heart to lose
+me. Miss Crawford," he added earnestly, "if I die, you'll never forget
+Millie, will you?"
+
+"I promise you I will not. I saw her yesterday, and she gave me such
+good news of your uncle. He has been perfectly sober ever since the
+night of the fire."
+
+"I am glad of that for his own and Millie's sake," Phil replied. "I get
+anxious about her at night, and wonder what she is doing." Then after a
+pause he continued, "I should like them to know that I did it; you know
+what I mean. Will you tell them, please?"
+
+"I will, but you must let me choose my own time for doing so. Now,
+Phil, will you make me a promise in return for mine?"
+
+"I will do anything you ask me, Miss Crawford," he replied eagerly,
+delighted at the thought of doing a service for one who had done so
+much for him.
+
+"Then read a chapter from this book every night and every morning,"
+she said as she took from her bag a beautiful little Bible. "See," she
+continued, opening it at the fly leaf, "I have written your name here,
+and beneath, a favourite text of mine—'We love Him, because He first
+loved us.' Phil, I want you to know more about those things that are
+so dear to Millie and me, and this will teach you, if you will read it
+prayerfully. God has been very good to you in saving your life," she
+went on earnestly. "It was wonderful that you escaped, I am told. You
+ought to be very grateful to Him, Phil, and not only full of gratitude,
+but full of love to Him. O! If you once felt how much He loved you, you
+could not help giving back your love in return."
+
+"I will try, Miss Crawford, and you must pray for me," he said humbly.
+
+Very willingly did she promise that she would. Then after a little
+further conversation she took her leave, saying she would come again
+soon.
+
+
+As days and weeks rolled on, Phil became gradually stronger and better,
+but still the slightest movement of his back was torture to him, and he
+could not even turn in his bed without assistance. He became at length
+weary and sick with hope deferred.
+
+"Doctor, shall I never walk again?" he said one day to Dr. Bethune, in
+a half-tired, half-impatient voice.
+
+Receiving no answer, he supposed his question had not been heard, but
+as Dr. Bethune at that moment turned hastily away to another patient,
+he had no chance of repeating it.
+
+When Miss Crawford came that afternoon accompanied by Millie, he made
+the same inquiry of her. But she hesitated, and Millie's lips quivered
+as her eyes met her brother's.
+
+"O! Do tell me," he said anxiously. "Surely I shall walk again some
+day!"
+
+Then very gently Miss Crawford told him his spine had been so injured
+by the fall of the burning wood that the doctors feared he would never
+recover from the effects, though in time he might perhaps walk with the
+help of crutches.
+
+"What! Lie still all my life long?" he moaned when she had finished.
+"Never walk nor run again! O! I can't bear it. I'd rather die."
+
+A sob from Millie broke the silence that ensued.
+
+"O my darling brother," she said, as she knelt by his bedside, "I will
+be legs, and feet, and arms, and everything to you, if you'll only let
+me. Uncle knows about it, and he is so sorry for you. He would have
+been to see you, only he's afraid that the sight of him would distress
+you. And he says, Phil, that he'll never touch that dreadful drink
+again as long as he lives, and that you shall never want for a home as
+long as he has health and strength to work for you. And he means it,
+dear. He is so good and kind now."
+
+All this Millie sobbed out at intervals, but Phil made no reply.
+
+"Don't think it unkind of me," he said presently, "but I'd rather be
+alone for a while. I can't talk about it yet."
+
+So they said good-bye to him, and Miss Crawford did what she had never
+done before. She put back the thick black hair from his forehead, bent
+down, and as she kissed him, he heard her whisper, "'Nevertheless not
+my will, but Thine, be done.'"
+
+
+All through that night, a storm of conflicting emotions raged in poor
+Phil's heart. He said to himself that he could not, would not live to
+endure so cruel a fate. What, never walk, nor run, nor jump again?
+Never draw himself up to his full height, and feel that delicious
+sensation of strength and power tingling through every vein in his
+body? Be a helpless cripple all his life long—a thing as useless as
+a log of wood? Be compelled to lie perfectly still? Be at the entire
+mercy of others, utterly dependent upon them for the gratification of
+every wish, the supply of every want? No, it was too hard a punishment
+for such a sin as his had been. What was it but a few passionate words,
+a small act of revenge, committed under great provocation? How was he
+to know that such dire results would be the consequence? They had not
+been his desire. Besides, had he not acknowledged and repented of his
+sin? Had he not gone almost beyond human power to make atonement? O it
+was cruel! It was most unjust!
+
+But lately Phil had learnt something of his Saviour's love, and with
+the dawn of morning a wondrous calm fell upon his troubled mind. It was
+no punishment after all, perhaps. It might be that God had sent this
+hard and bitter trial to prove him. Then, God helping him, he would
+stand the test and "suffer and be strong." Again he seemed to hear the
+sweet, low words:
+
+   "'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"
+
+It must have been an angel's voice, Phil thought, for there was no Miss
+Crawford there to whisper lovingly to him. So, with a peaceful smile
+upon his face, he fell asleep, and the first beam of the rising sun,
+stealing across his pillow, made a halo of glory about his head.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY.
+
+IT was not until the middle of October that Phil was considered
+sufficiently well to leave the hospital. In consequence of Miss
+Crawford's kindness, without which the plan would have been
+impracticable, it was arranged he should go straight to—Where do you
+think? Why, to dear old Chormouth.
+
+Knowing the benefit that Phil would probably derive from sea air,
+and being well aware that it was the place above all others that he
+would prefer to visit, Miss Crawford had asked Richard Hunt to allow
+his nephew and niece to spend a month in their native village; and
+that there might be no hesitation because of the expense that such an
+arrangement would necessitate, she had expressed her willingness to pay
+more than half the expenses if Mr. Hunt would advance the remainder.
+
+To Millie's openly expressed joy, he gladly consented.
+
+Phil did not say much, perhaps he could not, but Miss Crawford
+understood the look of radiant delight with which he heard the good
+news, and was satisfied that he was happy.
+
+The eventful day of the journey at length arrived. Phil was conveyed
+as comfortably as possible in an invalid's carriage to the station,
+and travelled on his couch in state with Millie and his uncle in close
+attendance.
+
+"You wait upon me as if I were a prince," he said gratefully.
+
+His uncle said nothing, but he smiled and looked pleased. He had been
+an altered man since the night of the fire. With good resolutions to
+lead a different life, there had sprung up within him a great regret
+for his past conduct. He felt deeply too for Phil, and blamed himself
+as being the cause of the accident that had deprived the boy of the use
+of his limbs.
+
+Miss Crawford had never yet breathed a word of what Phil had confessed
+to her, and she made the boy promise that for the present it should
+remain a secret between themselves. She acted from wise motives. She
+hoped Richard Hunt would so learn to pity his nephew, that the pity
+would grow into love, too deep and sincere to be affected by the
+knowledge that Phil's own cruel and revengeful deed had occasioned the
+fire and all the trouble which ensued.
+
+But the boy winced under the unaccustomed kindness of his uncle, and
+longed to make a clear breast of it then and there.
+
+Phil was glad to arrive at his journey's end. It had tired him far more
+than he would have believed possible; every limb was aching, and he was
+so faint and weary when the train drew up at Chormouth Station that
+Millie was quite frightened. They went straight to the rooms that Miss
+Crawford had secured for them in Mrs. Blake's pretty cottage on the
+cliffs, where, as soon as he had seen them comfortably established, and
+Phil reviving, their uncle left them, to return to his work in London.
+
+The sea air did wonders for Phil. He soon began to sit up a few hours
+every day, and great was Millie's joy when he was lifted into a
+bath-chair and she had the happiness of wheeling him along the path at
+the top of the cliffs. Poor boy! He was so light and thin now that she
+could do it without the least fatigue. Then Millie would stop while
+Phil gazed with delight over the vast restless ocean, and watched the
+big white clouds sailing overhead. The neighbours, seeing them there,
+would come up for a chat, or to beg their acceptance of a particularly
+fine fish for their dinner. Phil would hold quite a levée round his
+chair, and there was sure to be quite a contention as to which of
+his old friends should have the pleasure of drawing him back to Mrs.
+Blake's cottage.
+
+Happy days they were! A month flew by all too rapidly, and Millie began
+sorrowfully to think of their return to London. It was not for herself
+that she grieved. She dreaded the effect of the close air of the big
+city on Phil's weak body. The brother and sister had changed places
+indeed, for now she was by far the stronger of the two. But Millie's
+dreary anticipations were never realised, and events occurred that
+never in her wildest dreams had even entered her head.
+
+One cold afternoon—it was too cold and unpleasant a day for Phil to
+leave the house—Millie sat by the window, and gazed thoughtfully
+out upon the grey, stormy sea. It was rarely now that she had the
+opportunity of indulging in quiet thought; but just at present she had
+nothing in particular to do, and Phil was sleeping soundly. He had been
+in great pain during the preceding night, and had slept but little.
+Glad, therefore, that he was getting the rest which he so much needed,
+his sister took care not to disturb him.
+
+Millie had long wished to visit her mother's grave, and this afternoon,
+as old and fond recollections crowded to her memory, the wish grew
+deeper, and she felt that she must go. The churchyard was some distance
+from the village; it was too long a journey for Phil to make over rough
+roads, and she had never liked to leave him while she went alone. But
+now that he was sleeping so quietly, she thought surely she might take
+the opportunity to gratify her desire. After a little hesitation,
+Millie decided that she would go; so having begged Mrs. Blake to keep a
+watchful eye upon Phil, she started off.
+
+Quickly she passed up the straggling street, and by her own old home,
+at sight of which the tears rushed to her eyes, and the yearning at her
+heart grew painful in its intensity. By the village school she went;
+she was glad that the children were not yet dismissed from lessons, and
+that consequently the road was quiet, instead of noisy with the merry
+crowd that would gather there a little later on.
+
+Then climbing the long, steep hill, she arrived at the churchyard where
+her mother lay. She found the grave readily enough, though no stone
+marked the spot with the name of her who rested beneath it. No, there
+was no need for that. Millie singled it out in a moment, and with a
+return of the old loneliness and grief with which she had at first
+mourned her loss, she moaned:
+
+"My mother! O! My mother!"
+
+So she cried out her sorrow there, till she felt relieved and
+comforted. Then she knelt down in the quiet "God's acre" and prayed
+earnestly for herself; and for those she loved. Rising from her knees
+she plucked a few pieces of grass for Phil, and, pressing her lips
+to the cold earth, took a mute farewell of her mother's grave. Then
+observing for the first time how quickly the shades of night were
+falling, she hastily began her homeward journey.
+
+As she approached the churchyard gate, a man entered it from the high
+road, and came towards her. Millie stood aside on the narrow path to
+allow him to pass. On perceiving her, however, the man stopped, and
+said:
+
+"Can you tell me, my child, where to find Mrs. Guntry's grave?"
+
+"Mrs. Guntry's?" repeated Millie, thinking that she must have
+misunderstood him.
+
+"Yes, she was a friend of mine. I'm a stranger in these parts now,"
+said the man, "and shall soon be off again, but I'd like to see her
+grave before I leave the village."
+
+The voice was strangely familiar to Millie. Where had she heard it
+before? She raised her eyes and gazed anxiously into his face. Why,
+surely it was none other than—
+
+For a moment a feeling of terror seized her. It was so dark that she
+could not see clearly; the wind moaned among the branches of the
+leafless trees, and a superstitious awe seemed to freeze her senses.
+Then the old faith that her father was living, nay, did live, rushed to
+her heart with overwhelming force.
+
+"Why," she said, with a little cry of joy, "'tis father himself.
+Father, dear father, don't you know me?"
+
+"It can't be our little Millie. 'Tis, though, sure enough. Millie, my
+own precious child, I was told—"
+
+You can imagine the rest for yourselves.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Phil," said Millie, trying to tone down the happy ring in her voice,
+but which, nevertheless, would make itself heard, "I am afraid you have
+been dull all by yourself. Don't you want your tea badly? Why didn't
+you begin?"
+
+"I waited for you. Why, how pretty you look to-night, Millie! The
+candle shines upon your face, and your cheeks have such a pretty pink
+colour in them, while as for your eyes, they sparkle like jewels. When
+I get better, I'll try my hand at painting your portrait."
+
+"So you shall, dear. Phil, I have such good news for you."
+
+"Have you? Is Miss Crawford coming down?"
+
+"No, better news than that."
+
+"I can't think of anything that would be better. It would be uncommonly
+jolly to hear we hadn't to go back to London, but might just live here
+always. But that can't be, so it's no good guessing."
+
+"I think it might be managed, dear, after all."
+
+"Have you had a fortune left you, or when you were out, did you meet a
+fairy who made you a present of the wonderful wishing cap?"
+
+"Yes, that's it, Phil. I met a fairy, a real fairy. My darling, do
+you remember—" Millie changed her voice and spoke seriously and
+solemnly—"do you remember how I have always said, as mother did, that
+father would come back to us again some day?"
+
+Phil breathed hard; his face flushed, then became as pale as death.
+
+"I have seen somebody this afternoon," Millie continued, "who told me
+that I was right after all. Father is alive. We shall see him soon.
+Only think of that, my darling."
+
+But Phil made no answer; he had fainted, and Millie's cry for help
+brought her father and Mrs. Blake to his bedside.
+
+As soon as there were signs of returning consciousness, Millie
+whispered her father to leave the room till she had more fully prepared
+her brother to meet him. Then, when Phil had quite recovered, she made
+him drink his tea and eat a piece of toast before she would allow him
+to say a word.
+
+Millie was vexed with herself beyond measure. She accused herself of
+having been too hasty, and not sufficiently careful in breaking the
+news to him; but had she been twenty times more gentle, Phil's nerves
+were so weakened by suffering, that the least shock would have unnerved
+and prostrated him.
+
+He knew all at last, and there was indeed a joyful meeting between
+father and son. How they feasted their eyes on each other, and how
+Philip Guntry's heart sank as he noted the bright hectic flush upon the
+boy's cheek, the wasted body, and the thin trembling hands!
+
+"O father, it's so nice to have you," Phil said when, the first
+raptures over, he began quietly to realise his happiness. "You won't
+go to sea again, but you'll stay with us, and nurse me, won't you?
+Though," he added in an undertone so that Millie might not catch the
+words, "I don't think I shall be here so very long to want you."
+
+Then nothing would do but that he must be wrapped in the warm flannel
+dressing-gown Miss Crawford had given, and that his father must take
+him in his arms and nurse him, "just as you used when I was a baby, you
+know," he said.
+
+And Millie, drawing up a low stool, leant her head against her father's
+knee.
+
+Sitting thus, they listened to the story of Philip Guntry's
+preservation in the midst of awful and many dangers.
+
+He told them how, on one fearful night, when the winds were roaring
+like thunder among the sails, and the waves were dashing mountains
+high, the "Cynthia" struck upon a rock. There was barely time to get
+out the boats before the vessel sank. He and seven others were the last
+to leave the wreck.
+
+During many hours of darkness they tossed about in their frail boat, at
+the mercy of wind and waves. When morning dawned they saw no signs of
+the rest of the crew, and doubted not they were the only persons saved.
+For days they drifted along, starvation staring them in the face, and
+they had begun to despair of their lives, when, to their joy, they
+sighted land.
+
+It proved to be an uninhabited island, where for many months the
+sailors, lived as best they could. They made some kind of shelter
+for themselves, fed principally on the eggs of sea-fowl, and kept a
+constant watch for a passing vessel. A long time elapsed, however,
+before the welcome sail appeared in sight, and O! How anxiously and
+eagerly they waited to see whether the thin curl of smoke arising
+from their fire of dried leaves and wood would be observed, and bring
+friends to their assistance!
+
+And their hope was realised, a boat being sent out from the ship to
+fetch the poor fellows on board. The vessel was bound for a distant
+colony, and as soon as it reached its destination, Philip Guntry sought
+for and obtained a berth in a vessel homeward bound. Owing to various
+delays the passage had been a tardy one, but he reached England at
+last, and set out at once for Chormouth. Arrived at Moultonsea, a large
+town about four miles from Chormouth, he had met with an old comrade,
+who told him the sorrowful news of his wife's death, and that his
+children were living with their uncle in London.
+
+"I couldn't bear to go away till I had seen your mother's grave,"
+Philip Guntry said in a husky voice, as he finished his story, "or I
+should have gone straight to London. A good thing it was I came, for
+here I found my little daughter; and," he added, as his encircling arm
+drew her closer to him, "a right welcome sight she was."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Miss Crawford and Richard Hunt each received a letter from Millie
+containing the glad news. The former rejoiced with them in their
+happiness as deeply as she had sympathised with them in their troubles,
+and their uncle begged a holiday from his employers and hastened off
+to Chormouth to greet his brother-in-law. He brought with him a long
+letter for Millie from Miss Crawford, and inside it there was a tiny
+note addressed to Phil, and marked "Private."
+
+It contained only one line.
+
+"You may tell everything now, dear Phil."
+
+Phil was glad to have permission to speak; for the weight of the
+secret had been a heavy burden to bear. He longed to confess and ask
+forgiveness of his uncle, even as he had confessed his sill to God.
+That he might die with the deed still upon his conscience, had often
+been an appalling thought.
+
+It was when they were all gathered around the cheerful fire on the
+Sunday evening of Richard Hunt's visit, and Phil was again enfolded
+in his father's strong arms—no other resting place was half so
+comfortable—that he said:
+
+"Uncle, I have something to tell you. I fear you will hardly be able
+to forgive me. I wanted to tell you long ago, but Miss Crawford would
+not let me. I—I—O," he continued, leaning forward his poor bent body,
+and putting up his hands in supplication, "if I could, I would kneel at
+your feet and beg your forgiveness for what I did, but I can't. Uncle,
+it was not through any fault of yours that the house caught fire. I did
+it to frighten you. I set it on fire myself."
+
+There was a dead silence. They all fancied he was rambling in his mind,
+and so did not know what he was saying.
+
+Phil swallowed down the thickness in his throat, and went on:
+
+"You were not sober that night. You said some hard words to me, but I
+deserved them. O yes, I know I did. I was very angry, and wanted to
+'pay you out.' Don't turn away from me, uncle—" that was the boy's
+fancy, Richard Hunt had but put his hand to his face to brush away a
+tear—"I have been so sorry ever since. I deserve to be a cripple all
+my life. I put the shavings and the wood around the candlestick, and
+I hoped it would flare up and frighten you out of your sleep. I never
+thought—I never dreamt the house would be burnt. I went out in the
+streets for an hour or two, and came back just in time to—you know,"
+and he pointed to Millie. "Uncle, can you forgive me now?"
+
+"My poor Phil! 'Forgive you?' Will you forgive 'me?'" sobbed Richard
+Hunt, fairly overcome, and to Phil's amazement, he sank on his knees
+before him.
+
+Phil bent down—he could just manage to do that—and kissing his uncle,
+said gratefully and reverently:
+
+"You have made me so happy, dear uncle. Thank you very much. May God
+forgive us both!"
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+STRONGER THAN DEATH.
+
+SO the brighter days that Millie had talked about in Drury Lane had
+really come! Their father obtained work at Moultonsea, where he went
+to and fro by rail morning and evening. Then their old cottage in the
+village street happening to be empty ("It seemed to be on purpose,"
+Phil said), they moved into it before Christmas. Little by little,
+too, they got back the greater part of their old furniture, for the
+neighbours who had purchased it, offered it to them at the same prices
+which they themselves had paid for it, while those who could afford
+to be generous came and begged them to accept as a gift a chair, a
+bedstead, or table, as the case might be.
+
+There was hardly any perceptible change in Phil. If anything, he grew
+weaker, but they fondly hoped it was only the winter weather that tried
+him. Millie was his devoted nurse during the day; her father taking her
+place at night. If he was well enough, and the weather was favourable,
+she would wheel him out in his chair, but that happened less and less
+frequently as time advanced. It hurt his back, he said. What he liked
+best was to be carried in his father's arms around their little garden
+on a Sunday afternoon. That never tired him, and he loved to listen to
+the mellow pealing of the bells, as they rang the villagers to church.
+
+"What a big, old baby I am, father!" he would say saucily.
+
+To which, with a loving smile, his father would answer:
+
+"I wonder you aren't ashamed to be such a plague at your age," but all
+the while, he noticed with a heavy heart that every time he lifted his
+"baby," he found the load a lighter one.
+
+At the beginning of spring there came a more noticeable change. Then
+even Millie, who was always making herself believe that Phil would
+be well and strong again some day, perceived only too plainly that
+he daily became weaker, and his appetite less. She was glad when the
+drawing which he intended to give Miss Crawford was at length finished,
+for even the exertion of holding a pencil fatigued him.
+
+"You won't begin anything else, will you, dear?" she said when, having
+pronounced his sketch completed, he called his sister to admire it.
+
+"No, Millie, but I wanted to give Miss Crawford something that would
+make her remember me. She'll hang this up in her room, I know, and
+she'll think of me whenever she looks at it." Then after a pause, he
+said in a voice that was full of longing, "I should so like to see her
+again, Millie, before I die."
+
+"You will not leave us yet, darling, I hope," replied Millie, bravely
+keeping back her tears, "but if you wish, I'll write and tell her what
+you say."
+
+"Do you think she would come?"
+
+"I am sure she will. I'll send her a letter at once."
+
+"There's no great hurry, you know," said Phil, "but somehow I feel that
+I shall never be any better. I shall gradually get worse and worse.
+Don't cry, dear—" for Millie could no longer control her tears. "I am
+very happy. I am not afraid to die. I would rather it should be so.
+Remember, if I lived, I should be a helpless, suffering invalid, a
+burden upon you all. It's far better as it is."
+
+He stroked her hair lovingly, calling her by the many pet names he had
+for her, and he would not let her go till she had smiled again.
+
+Millie's letter went that night, and by a singular coincidence she
+received one from Miss Crawford the very next morning. It contained
+wonderful news. Millie could hardly believe her eyes as she read it.
+
+Miss Crawford said that her brother had again been seriously ill, that
+she herself was far from well, and that her father, hoping the change
+would benefit both his son and daughter, had decided to rent a house in
+the country for a few months. Hearing in a most unexpected manner of a
+villa to be let near Chormouth, they had, taken it, and soon, she told
+Millie, she might expect to see her.
+
+How delighted Millie was, to be sure! But though Phil said little, his
+joy was deeper than his sister's.
+
+With Miss Crawford's presence, Phil's last desire was gratified. The
+house that Mr. Crawford had taken was about a couple of miles from
+Chormouth, but she drove over nearly every day to see the dying boy—for
+that he was gradually, but surely, dying was now apparent to all.
+
+On one occasion she told him that she was engaged to be married to Dr.
+Bethune.
+
+"I am very glad, Miss Crawford," he said simply. "I thought so all
+along."
+
+"Did you, Phil?" she replied. "I thought it would be a great surprise
+to you."
+
+"Shall you be married soon?" he asked.
+
+"Yes, very soon now," she said; "that is why I told you about it. If
+all be well, I shall be married on the first of June. Only one thing
+will grieve me," she added fondly, "and that is, that after my wedding
+I shall not be able to visit you. We shall live in London then."
+
+"I am glad of that," Phil said heartily. "The people are so poor and
+so miserable there, and you will make some of them happier, I know.
+They want somebody to help them. What should I have done without you, I
+wonder!"
+
+"Dear Phil, I have done very little for you," she replied, with tears
+in her eyes. "We will do more for others if it please God to give us
+the means and the health."
+
+When she rose to wish him good-bye, she said: "I shall come oftener
+than ever to see you now that I shall so soon be leaving you."
+
+"It's a long time yet before the first of June," he remarked. "You'll
+be married in London, I suppose, Miss Crawford?"
+
+"No, down here in the country. If you tried hard, you might be able to
+hear my wedding bells."
+
+"I should like to see you in your pretty dress," he said wistfully,
+"but I'm afraid I shan't be well enough to get so far as the church if
+I tried ever so. Perhaps by that time—"
+
+He broke off hastily, and with a smile bade her good-bye, telling her
+to be sure to come very often.
+
+
+And she did, but Phil grew hourly weaker, and they feared that each
+day would be his last. He was very patient. They only knew that he was
+in pain by the flush on his face, the closed eyes and knitted brow.
+He rarely uttered a sound, never one of complaint; only sometimes a
+low cry of weariness would break from him. He gave up going out of
+doors entirely; he could not even bear to be carried in his father's
+arms. The village doctor who attended him said that at any moment the
+flickering breath of the boy's life might be extinguished.
+
+Every evening his father hurried home, dreading, yet expecting to hear
+that his boy was gone. But no, the light of Phil's life burned on, very
+feebly, almost imperceptibly at times, but still it burned.
+
+It was the last day of May. Phil was expecting Miss Crawford to pay him
+her farewell visit. She had not forgotten the boy's wistful eyes when
+he told her how he wished he could see her in her pretty wedding dress,
+and she resolved to gratify him, if he still desired it. She knew that
+it would be the last pleasure in her power to give him. So when she
+drove that afternoon to Chormouth, the box containing her wedding dress
+and veil went in the carriage with her.
+
+She passed into Phil's room, and after some conversation—which was
+cheerful in spite of their coming separation—she asked him if he still
+cared to see her in her bridal attire; for if he did, she said, it
+would be no trouble to put it on. He was delighted at the idea, and
+when she came from Millie's room in her beautiful dress of glistening
+satin and lace, the lovely picture that she made almost took his breath
+away. He gazed at her to his heart's content while she stood in the
+centre of the room, blushing a little, beneath the scrutinising glances
+of the brother and sister.
+
+She had never yet received the sketch that Phil had drawn for her.
+He begged Millie to fetch it now, and gave it to Miss Crawford "as a
+wedding gift with his dear love."
+
+"Dear Phil, thank you very much, I shall treasure it all my life long
+for your sake."
+
+"I shall think of you to-morrow," he said. "I shall have the window
+open and listen for the bells."
+
+"And I shall think of you, and pray for you. You must pray for me, too,
+that my future life may be blessed and happy."
+
+He smiled his answer.
+
+"Say good-bye to me in that dress, please, Miss Crawford," he
+continued, presently. "I should like always to keep you in my memory
+just as you are now. You are all white and shining, and you brighten
+the room like an angel of light. To think of you so will help me to
+bear my pain. I shall only have to close my eyes to see you again."
+
+Stooping down over the bed, and taking his hand in hers, she put back
+her long floating veil, and again kissed him, as she had done in the
+hospital ward months ago.
+
+He smiled gratefully and lovingly, and so keeping his eyes on her as
+she walked towards the door, Phil saw the white-robed figure pass out
+from his gaze for ever.
+
+Soon after that he fell asleep. Going out on tip-toe to meet her father
+when he came in from his work, Millie brought him into Phil's room.
+Together they sat by his bedside and watched him. For the dying boy,
+the light of life was indeed burning dimly.
+
+"Millie," he said suddenly.
+
+"What is it, dear? We thought you were asleep."
+
+"No, I have been thinking. My pain is all gone, and such beautiful
+things came into my mind. Will you say my verse to me?" He always spoke
+of the text that Miss Crawford had written in his Bible as his verse.
+"I like to hear your voice."
+
+She did so:
+
+   "'We love Him, because He first loved us.'"
+
+"Isn't it sweet?" he said, with a smile lighting up his face. "O!
+Millie," he went on earnestly, "I am so glad now that it ever happened.
+It seemed so hard at first. I couldn't understand that it was done in
+love. O! The love of the Lord Jesus! I was hard and wicked, and it
+softened me and won me over in spite of myself. Love has done it all
+through—first yours, then Miss Crawford's, and then the greatest love
+of all—the love that is stronger than death. Don't cry, Millie dear,
+there's nothing to grieve for."
+
+She smiled through her tears and caressed his hand lovingly.
+
+He said no more, and presently fell asleep again.
+
+Hours passed before he opened his eyes and spoke again.
+
+"Millie, tell me your dream once more."
+
+She did not understand, and asked gently, what dream he meant.
+
+"The dream you told me on the bridge in London. I want to hear it
+again."
+
+Kneeling down by his bedside, and forcing herself to speak in a clear
+voice, she began:
+
+"I dreamt, dear, that you and I lived here together, just as we did
+at Mrs. Blake's cottage, only that you were quite well and strong;
+and that one beautiful night, when the moon shone brightly—see, it is
+shining so to-night—you and I walked on the sands at low tide. I had a
+great longing upon me to go to mother. I thought the glistening ladder
+of light the moon shed across the sea seemed a way that would lead us
+to her. You said you would come too, and hand-in-hand we ran over the
+sands. But when we came to the water's edge, there stood father, and
+though we tried, we could not pass under his outstretched arms. He
+asked us where we were going, and when I told him, he begged us to come
+back, and wait till he was ready to go with us. Then—"
+
+"Yes, yes," said Phil, interrupting her, but speaking in so low a voice
+that they had to bend down their ears to catch the words—"Yes, yes, I
+remember. I couldn't wait; I had gone on. Father, you and Millie will
+come together some day."
+
+There was a long silence. The father and daughter knew that the light
+was going out fast. Day was just breaking, when again the weak,
+quivering voice was heard:
+
+"Give my love to uncle. Tell him I would not have it different—I
+am going on first, that's all.—Don't let her know till after she's
+married.—Cleansed in the blood—Drawn with the bands of love.—Look,
+Millie! The silvery pathway is shining just as it did when you saw
+it.—Why—why, mother!—"
+
+Phil started up in bed, drew one deep gasp, and fell back upon his
+pillow—dead.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The knell tolled at Chormouth, and mingled its sounds with the distant
+echo of Miss Crawford's wedding bells, but she knew not till days after
+that Phil's happy spirit had passed away from earth on her marriage
+morn.
+
+Dr. Bethune is a famous physician now.
+
+   "Little feet pattering and little tongues chattering—"
+
+are heard from morning till night in his house. His wife, amid all her
+duties, still finds time and opportunity to carry on the good work
+which she began years ago. Phil's picture hangs in her bedroom, and the
+story of his life and death is familiar to all her children.
+
+Richard Hunt never returned to his old habits of intemperance. He now
+lives in a healthy suburb of London, and is highly esteemed by his
+neighbours. He, too, has reasons to remember Phil. In speaking of him,
+he utters his name reverently, as if it bore a sacred charm.
+
+Millie and her father still live in the old cottage at Chormouth,
+but there are rumours abroad that a certain young farmer in the
+neighbourhood has asked her to become his wife and that she has
+consented.
+
+So there are changes in store for Millie. But after all, it will still
+be home, for her father will be near her; and from the windows of the
+farmhouse in which she will live can be seen two graves in a corner of
+the churchyard, those of her mother and her brother. A marble stone,
+placed there by Mrs. Bethune, stands between the two. It bears the name
+of both, and below are the words so full of memory to Millie—
+
+   "WE LOVE HIM BECAUSE HE FIRST LOVED US."
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+                     PRINTED AT THE OTTO WORKS
+                       FETTER LANE, LONDON.
+                     JAMES BEVERIDGE, MANAGER.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75351 ***
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+<head>
+    <meta charset="UTF-8">
+    <title>
+      Won Over: The Story of a Boy's Life, by Nellie Hellis │ Project Gutenberg
+    </title>
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+</head>
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75351 ***</div>
+
+<p>Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image001" style="max-width: 33.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image001.jpg" alt="image001">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image002" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image002.jpg" alt="image002">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h1>WON OVER:</h1>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+BY<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+<em>NELLIE HELLIS</em><br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+AUTHOR OF "ROVING ROBIN," "MARTIN DRAYTON'S SIN," ETC., ETC.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+LONDON:<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+T. WOOLMER, 2, CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, E.C.,<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+AND 66, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.<br>
+<br>
+1885.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image003" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image003.jpg" alt="image003">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+<b>To my Father,</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+IN GRATEFUL RECOGNITION OF HIS<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+LOVING HELP AND SYMPATHY.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image004" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image004.jpg" alt="image004">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image005" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image005.jpg" alt="image005">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3b">
+CONTENTS.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image006" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image006.jpg" alt="image006">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>CHAP.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_1">I.—BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_2">II.—HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_3">III.—WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_4">IV.—MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_5">V.—MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_6">VI.—PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_7">VII.—IN THE HOSPITAL</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_8">VIII.—MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY</a></p>
+
+<p><a href="#Chapter_9">IX.—STRONGER THAN DEATH</a></p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image007" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image007.jpg" alt="image007">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t2">
+<b>WON OVER:</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image008" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image008.jpg" alt="image008">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_1">CHAPTER I.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>IT was a hot day in July, and twelve o'clock was striking from a
+neighbouring church as a little girl came from one of the narrow
+streets that open into Drury Lane, and walked rapidly in the direction
+of Oxford Street. Her face, generally very pale, was now flushed with
+pleasure and excitement, while her eyes sparkled with delight. She had
+gone some little distance before she perceived the person whom she had
+come to meet. It was her brother, and breaking into a run she was soon
+at his side.</p>
+
+<p>"O! Phil," she gasped, completely out of breath, "what do you think?
+Miss Crawford has been to see me."</p>
+
+<p>"You should not run in such hot weather, Millie," said her brother.
+"You'll be ill again, if you do. Here, sit down a minute on this
+door-step, and get cool. Who has been, did you say?"</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Crawford. Why, Phil, you can't have forgotten her."</p>
+
+<p>"No, I remember," he answered shortly; and his face grew sorrowful,
+almost stern, at the recollections the name recalled.</p>
+
+<p>"She said she had been trying to find us everywhere," Millie went on
+eagerly, "but nobody at Camberwell seemed to know where we had gone.
+Then one day last week she happened to meet Ned Roberts, and he told
+her that he thought uncle had moved to Swift Street."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, more's the pity," muttered Phil. "Didn't she tell you the
+wretched hole would half kill you?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, of course not. You know she's not the one to make the worst of
+anything, Phil. She's too good for that. But, indeed, it's not so bad,
+after all. Why, our street is quite fresh and pleasant compared to Back
+Court," said Millie, mentioning one of the most wretched of the many
+thickly-populated alleys near Drury Lane.</p>
+
+<p>"You're like her there; you always make the best of everything. I wish
+I could, but I can't," said Phil despondently. "Never mind, Millie,"
+he added cheerfully after a moment's pause, "I shall soon be able to
+earn enough to keep us both. I shall be fourteen, you know, next month.
+Won't we have a pretty cottage in the country some day, that's all?"</p>
+
+<p>"But we couldn't leave uncle, Phil," said Millie, earnestly.</p>
+
+<p>"Why not? He has done nothing to make us very grateful to him, and
+he's no such pleasant company either," answered Phil in a rough, harsh
+tone. "See how he treats me! I did not tell you before, but, Millie—"
+he lowered his voice as he said it—"he struck me the other night; yes,
+struck me a blow that sent me reeling half across the room."</p>
+
+<p>"O! Phil, when?" Millie exclaimed anxiously, forgetting Miss Crawford
+and everything else in the alarm caused by her brother's words. "Where
+was I? How was it that I didn't know anything about it?"</p>
+
+<p>"You were asleep, dear. You had a headache and had gone to bed, and I
+took care not to make a noise, for I didn't want to wake you. I only
+looked at uncle; and, coward that he is, he slunk off to his room
+without speaking. He had been drinking, of course," said Phil; "but if
+he should dare to do it again, or touch you, I'll—" He did not finish
+his sentence, but he drew himself up, and shook back the hair from his
+forehead with such an expression of hatred and revenge on his face that
+Millie shuddered.</p>
+
+<p>"Phil, don't look so," she said. "You need not fear that he will ever
+strike me. He loves me too dearly for that. You know I can do almost
+anything with him."</p>
+
+<p>"Except make him give up his bad companions and bad habits; and unless
+you can do that, I don't see of what use your influence is, Millie,"
+returned Phil with a short, bitter laugh. "For my part," he added, "I
+think it's a mercy poor aunt died when she did. He'd have broken her
+heart before now."</p>
+
+<p>Millie thought it wiser to say nothing, though she could not suppress
+the weary sigh that came from the very bottom of her heart, as rising
+from the door-step she began walking slowly back to the place they now
+called home. Phil kept pace with her, looking miserable and gloomy.
+Very soon, however, Millie's face broke into a smile again, and she
+cheerfully started a new subject of conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"Dinner is all ready for you, Phil. Aren't you hungry?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, it's too hot to be hungry. Besides, who could eat in this vile
+atmosphere?"</p>
+
+<p>"But I've got a lovely lettuce for you, and vinegar. Vinegar is always
+so refreshing, I think, in hot weather. Then there's plenty of cheese,
+and a bit of beef we had over from yesterday. And—But guess what there
+is besides."</p>
+
+<p>"Is uncle coming home to dinner?" inquired Phil.</p>
+
+<p>Millie thought that he was ungraciously ignoring her request, and
+replied in rather a hurt voice—</p>
+
+<p>"No, he said he should not be in till night."</p>
+
+<p>Her brother's next words, however, told her that she had wronged him.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, then, there will be you, and to have you all to myself for half
+an hour will be as good as twenty dinners, Millie."</p>
+
+<p>There was one noble trait in Phil's character, at any rate, his intense
+love for his sister. It shone out now from his innermost soul, as
+looking fondly at her, he tucked her hand under his arm.</p>
+
+<p>"No, but do guess what it is," Millie went on eagerly. "It's something
+so nice—something you will enjoy. Miss Crawford brought it."</p>
+
+<p>"Then it's sure to be something good. Tell me, I'm a bad hand at
+guessing."</p>
+
+<p>"A dish of cherries. Such beauties! There was a basket full of them,
+and at the top she had spread some flowers. I thought it was all
+flowers at first. Isn't she kind, Phil? And O! She said—But there,"
+exclaimed Millie, suddenly interrupting herself, "we'll have dinner
+now, and I'll tell you what she said presently."</p>
+
+<p>So saying, Millie entered the house in Swift Street in which the
+brother and sister and their uncle lodged. Their rooms were on the
+top floor, and the little girl climbed wearily up the long steep
+staircase. Phil walked behind, taking good care not to hurry her. On
+every landing there were children playing,—poor, dirty, uncared-for
+little things who, for the most part, were shoeless and ragged. Some
+were quarrelling, while some, happier than the rest, were ravenously
+devouring the slices of bread, thinly spread with jam, that constituted
+their midday meal. On the second landing, a girl, older than Millie,
+with a coarse, bold face, called out sneeringly:</p>
+
+<p>"Well, you two stuck-ups! Just arrived from your mornin' walk? Ain't
+you proud of your uncle? He's such an ornament to the family, that you
+ought to be."</p>
+
+<p>"You'd better be careful what you say before my sister, Nora Dickson,"
+returned Phil haughtily. "I won't have her insulted by such a girl as
+you, I can tell you."</p>
+
+<p>Nora answered him with a mocking laugh, but she wisely refrained from
+further comment, and went on cobbling—it could not be called sewing—the
+ragged little frock which she held in her hand.</p>
+
+<p>As Millie had said, the dinner did look inviting. Yet it was only owing
+to the nice arrangement of the dishes, the cleanliness of the cloth,
+and the polish upon the knives and forks, that it had that appearance,
+for the food itself was small in quantity, and second-rate in quality.
+There was an air of neatness and refinement about the room too, which
+was evidently the result of Millie's care and taste; Millie, the
+child-woman, who in the twelve years of her short life had seen so many
+changes, and experienced so many of this world's sorrows and troubles.</p>
+
+<p>"Well," said Phil, cutting up his lettuce and beginning to eat with
+a relish that told of a good healthy appetite. "Well, what did Miss
+Crawford say?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why," replied Millie, the glad, happy look coming back again into her
+eyes, "she said I was to go to her house and have tea with her. She
+did, Phil. Aren't you glad?"</p>
+
+<p>"Jolly glad, little woman. It will just do you good to have a change,
+and plenty of something nice to eat for once in the way. When are you
+going?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not till next week, because Miss Crawford's brother is ill, and she
+has to nurse him. But he is getting better now, she says, and as soon
+as ever she is at leisure, she will fix a day for me to go."</p>
+
+<p>"She lives in Kennington Road, doesn't she?" Phil asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Baverstock House, Kennington Road. I remember it, because I saw
+aunt direct a letter to her once." Then, with a change in her voice,
+Millie continued, "Phil, I think that before aunt died she must have
+asked Miss Crawford to look after me a bit, for she told me this
+morning that whenever I was in trouble, and wanted a friend, I was
+always to let her know, and she would help me in any way she could. She
+was so grieved about uncle too. She said she wished she could find me
+a more comfortable home than this. But when I told her that I wouldn't
+leave you nor uncle, she smiled, and said that I was right, and that so
+long as uncle was willing to have me, it was best for me to stay."</p>
+
+<p>"But it's not good for you to be here. I know that well enough," Phil
+returned bitterly. "I wish I could take you away; but we shall have to
+wait for that."</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't leave uncle under any circumstances," said Millie
+earnestly and resolutely. "I promised aunt that, however bad he might
+be, I would always care for him and attend to him, just as she would
+have done if she had lived."</p>
+
+<p>"You're a good girl," said Phil, "but flesh and blood can't stand too
+much. However," he added more cheerfully, "we won't talk about our
+troubles any more. Get out your cherries. I must be back at one; so I
+have no time to spare."</p>
+
+<p>Even Phil's gloomy face brightened as Millie took from the cupboard a
+plate of beautiful "bigaroons." He ate a dozen or so with considerable
+gusto, then stopped short.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Millie, you're eating none," he said. "Mind, I shan't have a
+single cherry more than you, so please make haste. They won't keep this
+weather, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"But—but uncle would like some," said Millie timidly.</p>
+
+<p>"There it is again," exclaimed Phil angrily, breaking out into one
+of his sudden outbursts of passion. "It's always uncle, uncle, from
+morning to night. I'm sick of the sound of the word. I am nobody and
+nothing, I suppose."</p>
+
+<p>"O Phil, dear Phil, don't," said Millie, laying her head upon his
+shoulder and bursting into tears. "I do love you. You know I do. I have
+nobody in the world but you. If I hadn't you, I should just like to lie
+down and die. Don't say such unkind things."</p>
+
+<p>"There, there," said Phil tenderly, his anger all melting at sight of
+his sister's tears. "I didn't mean to vex you. Why, Millie," as her
+sobs increased, "don't be such a baby. You are a woman now, as you said
+the other day." And he kissed her, and lovingly stroked back the damp
+curls from her hot forehead.</p>
+
+<p>"Somebody must love uncle, Phil. It's the only thing that will save
+him. Aunt felt that, I know. And besides, you can't deny that when he's
+sober, he'll do anything for 'the little lass.'" And Millie smiled
+bravely, "just to please Phil," as she said to herself.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I'm off," he said when he saw that her tears had ceased. "Don't
+expect me home till late to-night. There's a lot of extra work to be
+done, and I must stay overtime. Good-bye, dear."</p>
+
+<p>He turned to go, but Millie held out a handful of cherries and looked
+so pleadingly at him, that against his will, he took them. Then,
+calling out a last good-bye from the door, Phil tramped downstairs, and
+Millie saw no more of him till dusk.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image009" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image009.jpg" alt="image009">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image010" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image010.jpg" alt="image010">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_2">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>POOR Phil and Millie! Their history had been a sad one, as you shall
+hear.</p>
+
+<p>Until within a year or so of the time when this story opens, they had
+lived in the pretty seaside village of Chormouth, in the south of
+Devonshire. Their father, Philip Guntry, was a sailor. He earned good
+wages as second mate on board a merchant vessel, while their mother
+employed some of her leisure time in lace-making, a work at which she
+was particularly skilful. So they were comfortably off, and Millie and
+Phil, in those days, knew nothing of want and privation.</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes, when Millie sat alone in their small close lodgings in
+Swift Street, she would shut her eyes and conjure up before her the
+village street and the pretty little cottage that had been her home
+for so many happy years. Very wistfully she thought of the little room
+which, with its dainty bed and spotless hangings of white muslin, she
+had once called her own; of the lovely view from its window; of the
+creeping rose bush, whose clusters of white blossoms had awakened her
+on many a sunshiny morning by gently tapping on her window pane; of
+the comfortable, homely kitchen, and of the parlour where they sat on
+Sundays, or entertained visitors who, having dropped in for a chat,
+were prevailed upon to stay and take a cup of tea.</p>
+
+<p>So time had passed happily and prosperously with the Guntrys until
+Millie was nearly ten years old. Then a terrible trouble shadowed the
+brightness of their home; and, alas! other griefs came rapidly upon the
+footsteps of the first.</p>
+
+<p>Philip Guntry, who had been absent on a long voyage, was daily expected
+at Chormouth. Anxious eyes scanned the shipping intelligence for news
+of the "Cynthia," and his wife spent many weary nights in listening to
+the blustering wind, and the distant swell of the ocean. The gales of
+that autumn were unusually severe, and wrecks and disasters were of
+such frequent occurrence that Mrs. Guntry's heart might well sicken
+with fear as days and weeks passed by and brought no news of her
+husband's arrival in England.</p>
+
+<p>At last, one morning, she read in a newspaper that a broken piece of
+timber, bearing the name of the "Cynthia," had been picked up at sea,
+from which fact it was concluded that the vessel in question had been
+wrecked during the fearful gales of the past weeks, and that all hands
+on board had perished.</p>
+
+<p>It was indeed a trial to the poor wife. Her worst forebodings were
+realised, and in the first agony of her grief, her spirits sank beneath
+the blow. But she was a brave little woman, and knowing that it now
+devolved upon her to support herself and her children, she put all
+selfish indulgence of her sorrow aside, and with willing hands, though
+with a heavy heart, set herself resolutely to her lace-making, which,
+once a mere pastime for leisure moments, had now to become a necessary
+and serious occupation for the whole of the day. Even then she found
+it a difficult matter to make both ends meet. True, there was a little
+fund of money in the Savings Bank. It had been placed there against a
+rainy day, but though the rainy day had now come, she felt that there
+might be a stormier one in the future, and would not touch it.</p>
+
+<p>By dint, however, of working early and late, and living very frugally,
+she was able to live on in the old home—it would have broken her heart
+to leave it—and send the children regularly to school, where Phil was
+doing wonders, and was already looked upon as a genius.</p>
+
+<p>With constant occupation, and in the peace of mind that her cheerful
+resignation to God's will brought with it, there presently sprang up
+within her a belief, which, though weak at first, grew stronger as
+time went on. It was a belief that her husband still lived, and that
+he would eventually return to her. She told her little daughter of her
+new-born hope, for Millie was thoughtful and gentle beyond her years,
+and her mother and she were very closely bound together in sympathy and
+love.</p>
+
+<p>"Millie," she would say to her, when in the long winter evenings Phil
+was away at his drawing class, and mother and daughter sat alone by
+the fireside, "Millie, I can't understand why I feel so sure that your
+father will come back to us some day. It seems impossible, I know,
+but I can't get rid of an inward conviction that he is not dead. Yet
+perhaps it is only because my hope of seeing him again is so great that
+it seems as if it must be realised."</p>
+
+<p>But her hope was never realised on earth. Within a year of the wreck of
+the "Cynthia" smallpox broke out in the village. The dreadful disease
+spread rapidly, and Mrs. Guntry was one of the first to sicken. An
+empty cottage on the outskirts of the village had been hastily prepared
+as a hospital for the sufferers. To this she was taken, and here, in a
+week or two, she died.</p>
+
+<p>Everybody pitied, and did what they could for the poor children who
+were now left alone in the world. The vicar wrote to an aunt in London,
+their mother's sister, who was almost the only relative they had,
+asking her if she could do anything for the orphans.</p>
+
+<p>In a few days an answer came from Mrs. Hunt. It brought good news for
+Phil and Millie. She would gladly give her nephew and niece a home, she
+said, and she would herself come to Chormouth and take them back with
+her to London.</p>
+
+<p>The children loved their aunt directly they saw her. Her manners were
+so kind and gentle, and her soft voice and sweet pale face reminded
+them so much of their dear mother, that their lonely sorrowful hearts
+were greatly comforted, and they felt at home with her at once. As she
+bent over Millie on the night of her arrival to give her a last kiss in
+bed, the child smiled her first smile since that dreadful day when her
+mother had been carried off to the cottage hospital.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Hunt remained a few days at Chormouth, arranging the sale of the
+furniture in the Guntrys' cottage, and settling a few business affairs
+on behalf of the children. The money in the Savings Bank had been
+nearly all spent in defraying the expenses of Mrs. Guntry's illness and
+funeral: the few pounds that remained, Mrs. Hunt resolved should pay
+for the children's further education, for she was by no means well off,
+and it was almost more than she could do to give them a home. Then,
+when all was finished, she went back to London, accompanied by Phil and
+Millie.</p>
+
+<p>They were as happy with their aunt Hunt as they would have been
+anywhere, perhaps, but they had not been long in the house before
+they understood the cause of their aunt's anxious face, and the weary
+vigils that she kept at night as she sat listening for her husband's
+tardy footsteps; for, alas! Richard Hunt had one great failing, that
+of indulging in habits of intemperance. It was a constant grief to
+his wife. He was an artisan—a painter—and they might have lived very
+pleasantly and comfortably had it not been for his unfortunate love of
+drink.</p>
+
+<p>From the first hour of their meeting Phil and his uncle never got on
+well together. There was something strangely antagonistic between them.
+Phil was reserved, cold, almost sullen towards his uncle, who never
+took the trouble to overcome his nephew's dislike, or interest himself
+in Phil's pursuits. With Millie it was different; he took a great fancy
+to her. Perhaps she reminded him of his tiny fair-haired child, whose
+short life of three years had ended in so sudden and painful a manner.</p>
+
+<p>It happened that "Baby," as they still called her, was left alone
+in the kitchen, and thinking, poor little one! what a bright pretty
+plaything the fire would make, she began pulling out the blazing
+sticks. One of these must have fallen upon her print pinafore, and
+instantly the child was in flames. Her screams alarmed her mother, who
+came flying to the spot. Seizing the child, she enveloped her in a
+thick shawl, and so extinguished the fire, but not before the tender
+limbs had been most fearfully burned. Three days after that fatal
+morning, "Baby" died, and so intense had been her agony that the mother
+at last prayed that death might come to put an end to her darling's
+sufferings. Poor mother! She felt that to her dying day she could never
+forgive herself for having left her child alone on the disastrous
+morning of the accident. No second bairn ever came to take "Baby's"
+empty place.</p>
+
+<p>Two years after that sad event, Mrs. Gantry died, and her sister at
+once asked her husband's permission to bring the two orphaned children
+to share their home. He objected strongly at first, remarking, very
+justly, that what would keep two persons in tolerable comfort was a
+short allowance for four. But Mrs. Hunt cheerfully talked away all
+difficulties, and at last her wish was gratified.</p>
+
+<p>In Millie's sweet companionship and loving care they felt repaid for
+what they had done. She settled down at once, taking upon herself
+certain of the household duties—"the little lass" being her uncle's pet
+name for her.</p>
+
+<p>Phil was by no means so happy. He went with his sister to school for
+the first few weeks after their arrival in London, but feeling sure
+that his uncle considered him a lazy fellow, who preferred idling his
+time over his books to any more profitable employment, he begged to be
+allowed to seek a situation. He soon obtained one, but was miserable
+in it. He was always longing for time to study and draw, and every
+spare moment was occupied with a book or pencil. He hated London, too,
+and London life. He felt "suffocated and smoke-dried," he said, and he
+longed intensely for the freedom and fresh air of the country.</p>
+
+<p>Then came another heavy loss for the children; one that made their
+lives desolate indeed. The following winter was unusually severe; and
+Mrs. Hunt, who was naturally delicate, caught a heavy cold, which
+turned to bronchitis, and in the end proved fatal. As she lay on what
+she felt would be her death-bed, her mind was troubled with many
+perplexities and anxieties respecting her husband and the children she
+had adopted. She feared that her husband would go from bad to worse;
+for he was weak-minded and easily led astray, and her influence had
+been the one thing that had kept him from bringing complete disgrace
+and ruin upon himself and home. What then would be Phil and Millie's
+fate? Certainly Phil was well educated for his age and position in
+life; consequently he would always be able to get a situation of some
+kind; but he was still very young, and both he and his sister needed
+wise guardianship and kind care. But after all she could only leave it
+in God's hands. The one thing that she could do, she did, which was
+to beg Miss Crawford to take an interest in the orphans, and be their
+friend and counsellor in any special difficulty.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford had known Mrs. Hunt ever since her child's death, when
+she had been requested by the vicar of the parish to call on the poor
+mother and comfort her in her sorrow. Very gladly she had consented;
+for though she was young, she had that love for her fellow-creatures
+which springs only from a deeper love for their Creator. Many a
+wretched London home had been brightened by her gentle presence, and
+many were the sad hearts that her words of sympathy had cheered.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford generally saw Millie when she called on Mrs. Hunt, and
+she liked the little girl for her own sake. Of Phil she knew very
+little, but she promised the dying woman that neither should want a
+friend while she was living. So their aunt was comforted and her mind
+set at rest.</p>
+
+<p>"I am quite happy," she said feebly, to the weeping friends who were
+gathered around her dying bed. "Love each other, and live for each
+other, my darlings. Good-bye, my husband; meet me in heaven. I shall
+watch for you there."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>For awhile after her death all went quietly. Each mourned the dear one
+who had been removed, and her dying words rang in her husband's ear.
+Before many months had past, however, several of his old habits were
+resumed; he renewed his acquaintance with some of his most disreputable
+"chums," and would come reeling home at uncertain hours of the night,
+much the worse for drink. Well might Millie's face grow pale, and her
+eyes heavy, as her daily burden of care grew heavier and heavier. Her
+only ray of comfort was that Miss Crawford was her true friend, and
+often came to see her.</p>
+
+<p>In the beginning of June, Phil and Millie were surprised to hear from
+their uncle that he had decided to leave Camberwell and live in Swift
+Street, Drury Lane. Great was the horror of the children when they
+found themselves in such a close, dirty neighbourhood. It was indeed
+different from beautiful Chormouth with its sunny bay, its big red
+cliffs, its green downs, pretty cottages and neat gardens.</p>
+
+<p>It was little wonder they thought yearningly of their old home, and
+sorrowfully compared it with their present. But it was harder for Phil
+than for Millie. She knew the love of God—knowledge which will make
+the saddest life happy. When weary or lonely, she would get her Bible,
+and ponder over the comforting words it contains, till her heart was
+cheerful and light again: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in
+Him; and He shall bring it to pass," she would say softly to herself.
+She believed implicitly that there was a better time coming, and lived
+in the present but to cheer her brother and endeavour to win back her
+uncle to a better life.</p>
+
+<p>It would have been well for Phil if he too had possessed Millie's
+Christian spirit; but his troubles, instead of softening, had hardened
+his heart. If he thought of God at all, it was as One who takes
+pleasure in punishing and chastising His children, and not as a loving
+Father "Who delighteth in mercy."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image011" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image011.jpg" alt="image011">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_3">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>IT was about a fortnight after the conversation recorded in the first
+chapter, when Phil, coming in from work somewhat earlier than usual,
+asked Millie to go out for a walk with him. It had been a hot, close
+day, and at the mere thought of a cool stroll with her brother she
+jumped up with alacrity.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't mind being left alone, uncle?" she asked of that individual,
+who sat by the open window smoking a short pipe.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no," he said, "I'm glad for you to go." Then looking at her rather
+anxiously, he added, "You haven't looked so well lately. There, take
+this penny and go on the bridge. The breeze from the river will freshen
+you a bit."</p>
+
+<p>Waterloo Bridge is a free thoroughfare now, but at the time of this
+story there was a toll of one halfpenny upon every passenger who
+crossed it.</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you, uncle," said Millie gratefully.</p>
+
+<p>He had come home sober that evening—a rare occurrence—and was showing
+an unusual amount of interest in domestic matters.</p>
+
+<p>"We won't stay out very late."</p>
+
+<p>"The longer the better, child. I shan't want you. Just put the bread
+and cheese on the table, though, before you go. There will be nothing
+to make you hurry back then," he said kindly.</p>
+
+<p>Phil fidgeted about till this was done. Then he and Millie started off.
+Down Drury Lane and out into the Strand they passed; crossed the road
+into Wellington Street, and so arrived on Waterloo Bridge, where they
+sauntered to and fro awhile; then Millie said:</p>
+
+<p>"Let us sit down in one of these recesses, Phil. It is pleasanter than
+walking about, and the wind is so cool and refreshing."</p>
+
+<p>"The moon will be up presently, Millie. You will like that."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, indeed, I shall. I remember how beautiful it was on moonlight
+nights at Chormouth. There was a broad pathway of silvery waves right
+across the sea as far as the eye could reach. I used to think how
+nice it would be to row in a little boat right up the glittering road
+of light; for it was so lovely that I fancied it must surely lead to
+heaven. Phil," Millie continued solemnly, "do you know that I saw it
+again last night in a dream?"</p>
+
+<p>Her brother thought that she was going to tell him what she had dreamed
+about, but Millie was silent, with a far-away look in her eyes, as she
+gazed up into the sky. Presently she gave a little sigh, and, rousing
+herself, said:</p>
+
+<p>"Is the river pretty by moonlight, Phil?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course it's nothing like the sea," he replied; "but you will be
+able to judge for yourself in a few minutes. Are you cold, Millie?
+Here, let me draw your scarf close round your throat, and wind the end
+again—so." He was always careful of Millie.</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," she said, "but I am not cold. Phil," she added after a
+pause, "don't you think it's strange that Miss Crawford has not been
+since that day when she brought the cherries?"</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps her brother is worse. When was it she came?"</p>
+
+<p>"A fortnight ago yesterday. Perhaps if she doesn't come soon, she will
+write. I wish when I go to her house to tea you could come too, Phil
+dear."</p>
+
+<p>"No, thank you, Millie, I'd rather not. I like you to go, but I should
+feel uncomfortable in a grand house like hers."</p>
+
+<p>"Would you?" said Millie slowly. "I never thought of that before.
+Perhaps I had better not go then."</p>
+
+<p>"That's nonsense; you and I are so different, Millie. Besides, I can't
+quite tolerate being patronised yet," he said bitterly.</p>
+
+<p>Millie looked puzzled. "What does that mean?" she asked with knitted
+brows.</p>
+
+<p>"O never mind," he replied, with a little laugh. "If you don't know,
+it's just as well that you shouldn't be told. 'Where ignorance is
+bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' O Millie," he burst out suddenly, after
+a pause, "I wish I were dead."</p>
+
+<p>"My darling," she said lovingly, as she nestled closer to him and put
+her hand in his, "don't say that, for my sake. O how I wish I could
+make you happier! I wish you felt as I do—that God will send us better
+times if we are only patient, and will trust Him. Don't you remember
+what mother used to say about there being a silver lining to every
+cloud? I am sure there is a silver lining to our cloud, if we would
+only see it."</p>
+
+<p>"No, Millie, there is not," he answered in a despondent voice.
+"Everything is against us. We are being dragged down lower and lower. I
+ought to be doing something better than putting up parcels of grocery,
+and carrying them to people's houses, and you ought to be going to
+school."</p>
+
+<p>"But perhaps when the master of the shop sees how clever you are," said
+Millie, ignoring that part of Phil's speech that referred to herself,
+"perhaps he'll let you serve behind the counter, or some day, Phil, you
+might keep the books; just think of that!"</p>
+
+<p>Millie had a profound belief in her brother's abilities to do anything
+and everything; for hadn't he been the very first boy in the school at
+Chormouth, and didn't their mother say that her son seemed to have such
+a liking for books that she would try to make a schoolmaster of him?</p>
+
+<p>"Anyhow, Millie," Phil said, with an effort to be cheerful, "I will
+earn enough money for us both some day. But there, I say that so often,
+that you must be tired of hearing it. Look away yonder. Do you see the
+moon coming up over the chimneys there?"</p>
+
+<p>Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.</p>
+
+<p>"It is very beautiful, Phil, even here," she said softly. "What is that
+high straight tower called?"</p>
+
+<p>"That is the Shot Tower, where shot is made." Then he explained the
+process to her—how melted lead is poured through a colander at the top
+of the tower and made to drop into a vessel of water at the bottom,
+in perfect little spherical forms—"like the drops of rain, you know,
+Millie."</p>
+
+<p>Then he pointed out the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey;
+bade her listen to the half-hour as it struck from Big Ben, and told
+her what he knew of the history of the many large buildings in the
+neighbourhood of Waterloo Bridge. Had Cleopatra's Needle been there
+then, he might have made his sister's eyes grow big with wonder at
+the marvellous stories that could be related of that, but the famous
+obelisk was at that time in its old place at Alexandria.</p>
+
+<p>And now the moon, the full moon, had risen over the mighty city of
+London. Near objects were bathed in its bright, pure light, while
+far-away in the distance the scene was lost to view in a soft haziness.
+It was a grand sight. Millie was amazed and awe-struck. Silently she
+gazed around her, then, kneeling on her seat, leant her head over the
+parapet, and looked down on the river beneath. Phil noticed that she
+shivered.</p>
+
+<p>"You are cold, Millie," he said gently. "Hadn't we better go back now?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, not just yet," she replied. "It is only because the water looks so
+dark and gloomy in the shadow that I shiver. It looks hungry, too, as
+if it longed to open its mouth and swallow one up. Ah! Phil, I like the
+sea best. Listen now. I will tell you what I dreamed last night; then
+if you like we will go home." Millie paused a moment, then began:</p>
+
+<p>"I thought that you and I were living alone at Chormouth, in our old
+cottage, and on just such a lovely moonlight night as this we went
+walking on the cliffs together. The tide was out, and across the water,
+as far as ever we could see, stretched the silvery pathway that you
+know I used to think must lead to heaven. I thought so then, and I
+asked you to come with me and join mother there; for though we were
+very happy, we were often very lonely, and we longed to have her with
+us. You would not listen to me at first, but presently you said 'Yes.'
+So taking your hand, I ran with you across the sands, and without
+the least fear into the tiny rippling waves of the turning tide. But
+no sooner had our feet touched the water than a shadow seemed to bar
+the way. We looked up, and there was father standing with his arms
+stretched out to us.</p>
+
+<p>"'Father,' I cried, 'I am so glad to see you. You are come just in time
+to go with us to mother.'</p>
+
+<p>"I wasn't one bit surprised to see him, you know, although I knew quite
+well that he had been wrecked. Well, he stood still with his arms
+spread out and did not move. Then in a minute or two, he cried with the
+tears running down his cheeks:</p>
+
+<p>"'Children, I can't go; I don't know the way. Come back with me and
+teach me, and then, when I have learnt, we three will go together!'</p>
+
+<p>"At that I sprang into his arms, and kissed him, and said I would wait
+till he too was ready, and I held out my hand to you again, Phil, but
+you—" Millie's voice dropped to a whisper—"but you were gone. I could
+not see you anywhere; you were not in the shadow, nor in the moonlight.
+Then I called out loud for you, and I suppose that woke me; for the
+next minute I heard you say:</p>
+
+<p>"'All right, Millie, I'm awake.'</p>
+
+<p>"And then I knew that I had been dreaming."</p>
+
+<p>"That was a strange dream," said Phil musingly. "It was striking six,
+I remember, when I heard you calling me just as you always do, this
+morning, so that you see was caused by the force of habit. But the
+first part of your dream was ghostly, Millie. We won't talk about it
+any more. Let us go home."</p>
+
+<p>"It was not ghostly to me; it was a very beautiful dream, and I was
+only sorry when I woke," said Millie, rising. "Somehow it makes me
+believe just as mother did, that father is living, and will come back
+to us some day, as," she added, reverently folding her hands, "I pray
+God he may."</p>
+
+<p>Well might Phil wish that he had his sister's hopeful, trusting spirit.
+He sighed as he watched her; then with a "Come, Millie," he hooked his
+arm in hers, and they turned towards home.</p>
+
+<p>They had not gone many steps before they were met by a lady and
+gentleman. The former looked hard at Millie, then stopped, exclaiming:</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Millie, is that you?"</p>
+
+<p>Millie's joyous "O Miss Crawford" was answer enough.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose Phil brought you to get a little fresh air," she said with a
+smile. "I am glad of that, it will do you good."</p>
+
+<p>Without speaking, Phil doffed his cap, and stood awkwardly by, while
+Millie eagerly answered Miss Crawford's questions.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you come to tea with me on Monday afternoon?" said that young
+lady to Millie. "I shall expect you at four o'clock, and you and I will
+take tea together on the lawn. You will like that, Millie?"</p>
+
+<p>The child's eyes sparkled.</p>
+
+<p>"Could you not manage to call for your sister about eight," continued
+Miss Crawford turning to Phil, "and see her safely home?"</p>
+
+<p>He mumbled a reply which Miss Crawford chose to consider an assent.
+Phil was always shy with strangers, and especially so when they were
+ladies.</p>
+
+<p>Then she wished the brother and sister good-bye, and as she walked away
+Phil heard her say to her companion, "That little girl shall be among
+our first batch, Sydney."</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder what she means," thought Phil to himself. But he said nothing
+to Millie, who trotted along chatting merrily till they reached their
+home in Swift Street.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image012" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image012.jpg" alt="image012">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image013" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image013.jpg" alt="image013"></figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>She received her guest with a kind word of welcome.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image014" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image014.jpg" alt="image014">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_4">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>THE following Monday was indeed a red-letter day in Millie Guntry's
+calendar. She put on her best dress, which, in spite of the care she
+had taken, was beginning to look shabby, and the pretty lace collar and
+cuffs that her mother had made for her. Nora Dickson called out when
+she met Millie on the stairs that she looked "quite a lady." Nora said
+it satirically; but it was the truth nevertheless.</p>
+
+<p>Millie had some little difficulty in finding Baverstock House, and
+it was with a trembling hand—for she felt extremely nervous—that she
+pulled the bell at the side of the high green gate.</p>
+
+<p>But when the gate was opened, she thought at first she was in
+fairyland! Who would have expected to see so green a spot in such a
+crowded, noisy neighbourhood? The house was a large old-fashioned
+building, with ivy and many kinds of creepers climbing up its walls,
+and around the pillars of the doorway. In the front of the house
+stretched a velvety lawn, and the high wall that surrounded it was
+thickly covered with more ivy and creepers. In the centre of the
+garden a pretty fountain threw up its silvery spray in the sunshine.
+It made Millie feel cool even to look at it. In one corner of the lawn
+there grew a large mulberry tree, and there, under its shade, sat Miss
+Crawford in a low basket-chair at needlework. She received her guest
+with a kind word of welcome, and soon the little girl was seated by her
+friend and chatting away at her ease.</p>
+
+<p>Presently tea was brought out. Millie had not felt so hungry for months
+as she did at the sight of the delicate bread and butter, delicious
+strawberries, and rich light sponge cake.</p>
+
+<p>"O!" sighed Millie to herself. "If Phil were but here!"</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford was delighted at the child's evident pleasure. "Now,
+Millie, you are to make a good tea," she said, as she noticed that
+Millie ate her second slice of bread and butter with considerably less
+relish than the first.</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," Millie replied, smiling gratefully; "but I haven't been
+very hungry lately. I think the hot weather has taken away my appetite."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you perfectly well, dear child?" Miss Crawford asked anxiously, as
+she looked at Millie's pale face.</p>
+
+<p>"I have bad headaches sometimes," she answered, "and I get tired so
+soon. But that is nothing; I am quite well, thank you."</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me truthfully, Millie, do you always have enough to eat?"</p>
+
+<p>Millie blushed and stammered, "I—I—Indeed, I don't think I could eat
+more if I had it: only uncle gives me so little money now, and Phil
+works so hard that, you know, he must have plenty of food to keep up
+his strength. Phil's wages will be raised soon, and then we shall get
+on better," she added cheerfully.</p>
+
+<p>"Your uncle gives you a certain sum weekly, I suppose?" Miss Crawford
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>"He does not give it me regularly—I wish he would," replied Millie.
+"And it's sometimes more, and sometimes less. I buy the food and the
+things that we use in the house, and he pays for the rooms—I mean—"
+She stopped in confusion as she remembered that only that very morning
+their landlady had told her that they owed nearly a month's rent, and
+if the money were not soon forthcoming they must leave. Poor Millie! As
+she thought of it all, the wearied look came back into her face.</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind, my child," said Miss Crawford, "we won't talk about
+disagreeable subjects now. I have a plan in my head to bring back the
+roses into your cheeks again. But as I may not be able to carry it out
+after all, I shall not tell you what it is; I don't want to disappoint
+you."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't leave uncle and Phil," said Millie, dreading she knew not what.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford smiled and changed the conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"How is Phil getting on with his work?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>Phil was an inexhaustible subject to his sister, for she never tired of
+talking of what he did, and what he knew. She now told Miss Crawford,
+as a great secret, how much Phil wished to continue the drawing lessons
+that he had begun at an evening class in Camberwell the previous
+winter, and how clever he already was with his pencil.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Miss Crawford," said Millie, in a voice of profound admiration,
+"he actually drew me a lovely little picture of Chormouth Bay, with old
+John Linton the fisherman coming home with his boat full of mackerel.
+And all from memory!"</p>
+
+<p>"You must show it me, Millie, some day. Now, if you have quite finished
+your tea, I will have the table cleared."</p>
+
+<p>But they sat on in the pleasant garden till all the sunbeams had left
+it, then Miss Crawford took Millie indoors.</p>
+
+<p>If the garden had appeared lovely to the child, the house seemed still
+more beautiful. Once at Chormouth she recollected that she had been
+taken over "The Hall" by her mother, and on two or three occasions
+she had been in the library at Chormouth Vicarage. But here it was
+not grand and stately like "The Hall," nor small and cheerless like
+the Vicarage. The rooms in Miss Crawford's house were neither too
+large nor too small; the carpets were soft to the eye and soft to
+the touch—Millie could hardly hear her own footsteps as she walked.
+The furniture was substantial and comfortable; the pictures bright
+and cheerful—ah! Wouldn't Phil have liked to see those pictures! And
+flowers and ferns in rich profusion were standing in every available
+spot, shedding their gracefulness and sweet perfume upon all.</p>
+
+<p>"O! Miss Crawford," said Millie, drawing a long breath of admiration,
+"what a lovely house you have!"</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad you think so," Miss Crawford said smiling. "Now," she
+said, leading the way into the prettiest room of all, "this is my
+drawing-room. Sit down in that low chair in the corner there, Millie,
+and I will play and sing to you. My father and mother are away with my
+brother in the country, so that we shall not be disturbing anybody."</p>
+
+<p>So saying, she opened the piano, and sang in such a rich sweet voice
+that Millie started with surprise and pleasure. So distinctly too
+were the words pronounced that every syllable was heard. The first
+songs were light and cheerful. These were succeeded by those grand but
+touching lines:—</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<br>
+"Break, break, break,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!<br>
+&nbsp;And I would that my tongue could utter<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The thoughts that arise in me.<br>
+&nbsp;<br>
+"O well for the fisherman's boy,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That he shouts with his sister at play!<br>
+&nbsp;O well for the sailor lad,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That he sings in his boat on the bay!<br>
+&nbsp;<br>
+"And the stately ships go on<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To their haven under the hill;<br>
+&nbsp;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the sound of a voice that is still!<br>
+&nbsp;<br>
+"Break, break, break,<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!<br>
+&nbsp;But the tender grace of a day that is dead<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will never come back to me."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>The music and the words went straight to the little listener's heart.
+They took her in spirit to Chormouth—to the little cottage there, and
+to its beloved inmates. In spite of her efforts to prevent them the
+tears would come. She could just manage to keep from sobbing aloud, and
+that was all.</p>
+
+<p>At the end of the song Miss Crawford paused. In a few minutes, however,
+she began again with that beautiful air from Mendelssohn's oratorio of
+"Elijah," "O rest in the Lord."</p>
+
+<p>"'O rest in the Lord,'" repeated Millie softly to herself, "'wait
+patiently for Him.' Yes, yes, I will."</p>
+
+<p>Then came the blessed promise, "'And He shall give thee thy heart's
+desire.'"</p>
+
+<p>There was no bitterness nor heartache in her tears after that. She
+had but to wait, and her heart's desire would be granted, her heart's
+desire for Phil—for her uncle, and for herself that she might become
+more unselfish, more patient, more content, more like the Lord Jesus,
+Whose little child she was. Millie, as she heard the sweet comforting
+words, bowed her head and turned them into a prayer.</p>
+
+<p>A slight noise made her look up. A tall gentleman came quietly into the
+room. He did not observe Millie in her dark corner; he walked straight
+to the piano and stood behind the player till the last sounds of the
+music had died away. In the silence that followed—for Miss Crawford's
+voice had grown husky, and she paused to let it regain its accustomed
+tone—he bent down and kissed her, saying as he did so:</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you, that does bring rest indeed!"</p>
+
+<p>"Is that you, Sydney?" Miss Crawford exclaimed, as she rose quickly
+from her seat. "I did not expect you just yet. Ah! You are tired—very
+tired, are you not?" she asked, looking closely at him in the dusk.</p>
+
+<p>"Rather. I have had hard work at the hospital to-day," he replied.
+"Several poor fellows who had been wounded in a machinery accident were
+brought in. Two have died. We have hopes that the others will do well."</p>
+
+<p>"How dreadful!" said Miss Crawford. "I do not wonder that you are tired
+and worn out. There, sit down," she continued, as she wheeled towards
+him a comfortable arm-chair, "and rest yourself. For the present I
+must attend to another visitor. Millie, come here and speak to this
+gentleman."</p>
+
+<p>Millie came from her corner, feeling glad that the twilight hid her
+tear-stained face. Now that she was nearer to him, she thought she
+recognised the gentleman, and then she remembered she had seen him with
+Miss Crawford on Waterloo Bridge.</p>
+
+<p>To Millie's surprise, he asked her a great many questions—odd questions
+she thought them. Where did she live? Had they a good supply of fresh
+water for their use? How large was the room in which she slept? Did she
+keep her window open night and day? He shook his head and looked very
+grave when he heard that her bedroom was little more than a cupboard,
+and that the window was so tiny as scarcely to admit any light at all.</p>
+
+<p>The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who came
+to say that Philip Guntry had called for his sister.</p>
+
+<p>"Then I suppose I must let you go, Millie," said Miss Crawford. "Say
+good-bye to Dr. Bethune."</p>
+
+<p>They found Phil in the study. He stood twirling his cap and looking as
+if he longed to be out of the house. Miss Crawford tried hard to put
+him at his ease, and so well did she succeed, that in a few minutes he
+was keeping Millie company in eating a slice of cake, while he talked
+eagerly and sensibly on a subject which was very dear to him—drawing.
+His eyes glistened with pleasure when Miss Crawford told him of a
+School of Art that he should attend when the autumn term began.
+Millie was glad that her dear Miss Crawford should see her brother
+for once as she so often saw him—with the heavy sullen look gone, and
+an intelligent animated expression in its place; with a ready smile
+playing around his lips, and with his black locks tossed back from his
+forehead.</p>
+
+<p>How Phil enjoyed that conversation! He was no longer anxious to get out
+of the house; indeed, he quite forgot where he was, and how time went.
+For the first time for many a long day he felt that somebody besides
+Millie was taking a pleasure in seeing him happy; was treating him as
+a rational, intelligent being, who had tastes to be cultivated, and
+abilities to be used. When his second piece of cake had disappeared,
+Miss Crawford went to a bookcase and took two books from its shelves.
+She handed one to Millie; the other she gave to Phil, saying:</p>
+
+<p>"I want you to keep this in memory of our pleasant chat. It is one of
+my favourites. I am sure you will like to read it. No, don't thank me,"
+she added hastily, as Phil uttered a delighted "O Miss Crawford!"</p>
+
+<p>"And don't open it till you get home."</p>
+
+<p>She went with them herself to the hall-door, tripped lightly across the
+lawn, gave Phil a warm shake of the hand, pressed a kiss upon Millie's
+forehead, opened the gate, and as they passed out, her last words rang
+in their ears, "Good-bye, I shall see you again soon. Remember I am
+always your friend."</p>
+
+<p>Well may your heart be blithe and happy, dear Minnie Crawford, and well
+may you feel blessed in your home and the world. For in giving largely
+of your cheering sympathy, in ministering to the wants of the sick and
+the poor, in scattering a sunbeam here and a gladness there, you are
+giving forth the good measure that is returned unto your own heart,
+"pressed down, and shaken together, and running over."</p>
+
+<p>Phil walked away from Baverstock House that evening feeling that the
+world had suddenly changed to him. He had a sympathising friend at
+last. He could have fallen down and kissed the feet of her who had
+spoken so winningly and kindly to him. He had not been so light-hearted
+since the old days at Chormouth.</p>
+
+<p>In spite of Miss Crawford's injunction the brother and sister halted
+under the first lamp-post to take a peep at their books. Phil was all
+impatience to know what his was about, though had it not been that his
+spirit was infectious, it would have been enough for Millie to feast
+her eyes on the pretty blue cover of hers. Phil uttered a long "O!"
+of joyful anticipation as he saw the title, "The Early Lives of Great
+Painters," and Millie read aloud the golden letters on the cover of her
+book, "Ministering Children."</p>
+
+<p>"'Ministering Children'! What are ministering children, Phil?" she
+asked wonderingly.</p>
+
+<p>"Why," he replied, looking fondly at her, "they are children like you,
+Millie."</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image015" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image015.jpg" alt="image015">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_5">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>PHIL went about his work in much better spirits after his visit to
+Miss Crawford. It seemed strange to him now that he had once felt so
+ungracious and unfriendly towards her. He did not know her then; that
+was it. He had thought she was a fine lady who patronised her poorer
+neighbours, and Phil's English heart revolted against the idea. When
+he saw that she met him on the equal ground of their common humanity,
+talked to him of his great longing to become an artist, sympathised
+with him that he could not continue his education, and devised plans
+for his self-improvement, then Phil's gratitude and affection flowed
+out to her like a river, and next to Millie she had the warmest place
+in his heart. Millie he could love, and pet, and caress, but she was
+as simple as a baby, and sadly ignorant of many things that he had at
+his tongue's end. Now in Miss Crawford, he had found a friend older and
+wiser than himself, one who would direct him, and tell him how best to
+get the help he needed to carry on the studies which, notwithstanding
+the difficulties attending the resolution, he determined should still
+be pursued.</p>
+
+<p>In his new-found happiness even Phil's temper improved. He was more
+respectful to his uncle; and, one evening after supper, actually
+volunteered to read aloud to him from his new book. Richard Hunt was
+but little interested, however, and was soon snoring an accompaniment
+to his nephew's not unmusical voice. Nevertheless his attempts to
+conquer the sullen indifference with which he had invariably treated
+his uncle, who certainly did little to merit the boy's respect, met
+with their own reward. Phil was happier, as we all are for trying to do
+right, and Millie's face grew daily more and more cheerful.</p>
+
+<p>"If uncle would but be always sober and give me enough money to keep
+house with properly, how happy we should be!" she thought.</p>
+
+<p>She had heard no more from their landlady respecting their arrears of
+rent, but she noticed that her uncle's watch was missing, and rightly
+guessed that it had been pawned to meet the debt.</p>
+
+<p>August was not yet over, when one day Phil, coming in to dinner, found
+Miss Crawford and Millie together.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah! Phil," said Miss Crawford, holding out her hand—which he was proud
+enough to take, though he wished his own had been cleaner to meet
+it—"you are the very boy I was wishing to see. Here is your sister
+quite unmanageable this morning. No, Millie, you be quiet," she added,
+as Millie opened her mouth to utter an emphatic denial of the charge
+that was brought against her. "I will tell your brother, and you will
+see that his opinion entirely agrees with mine;" and she nodded her
+head merrily.</p>
+
+<p>"Now listen, Phil. These are the facts of the case. Dr. Bethune, a
+friend of mine, whom Millie knows, has bought a lovely cottage at
+Bournemouth for the express purpose of accommodating any little sick
+folks that may happen to need a change of air. An old woman—and a
+very kind one she is, too—has been put in this cottage to nurse those
+children who are weakly enough to require nursing, and to see that all
+are happy and well cared for. Now, Dr. Bethune is going to send off
+three of his little patients who have been ill, but there is room for
+a fourth visitor, and he and I both wish Millie to make that fourth.
+But I cannot get her even to listen to me. She says such a thing is
+simply impossible; and when I argue the point, she overwhelms me with
+solemn assertions that you and your uncle would starve to death in
+her absence, turn the house out of window, and commit all kinds of
+absurdities. Now, just tell her that she is a conceited little woman,
+and that you can keep house almost as well as she can."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, indeed, you ought to go," said Phil heartily. "You know you
+have been ailing ever since aunt died. The sea air will set you up
+splendidly for next winter. I think, Miss Crawford," he continued,
+turning to her, and lowering his voice, "Millie is afraid that uncle
+and I shall quarrel, but I promise I will do my very best to keep the
+peace."</p>
+
+<p>But Millie still hesitated.</p>
+
+<p>"Do go, there's a darling," Phil said coaxingly. "'Tisn't like stopping
+away for ever, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, she need not decide now," said Miss Crawford; "and, indeed,
+nothing can be arranged till we know what your uncle says about it.
+You had better talk it over when you are all three together, and then,
+Phil, you must come over to my house and tell me what you have decided
+to do."</p>
+
+<p>Phil readily promised he would do so.</p>
+
+<p>"Isn't she a darling?" cried Millie enthusiastically, when Miss
+Crawford had gone.</p>
+
+<p>"She is more than that," replied Phil slowly, "she is an—an angel."</p>
+
+<p>He had tried to find a comparison that was less common, but he could
+think of none other that was so appropriate.</p>
+
+<p>Phil did all in his power to persuade Millie to go to Bournemouth, but
+she was most unwilling to consent. She shook her head in reply to all
+his arguments, and said that she could promise nothing till she had
+spoken to her uncle, for whose return they waited long that night.</p>
+
+<p>It was past midnight when at last he came. Then his unsteady footsteps
+and thick hoarse voice told the children only too plainly that he
+was the worse for drink. He went straight to his own room, and threw
+himself upon his bed. Millie was relieved that he had done so.
+She could not bear to see the wretched degraded object that he so
+frequently made himself.</p>
+
+<p>"There," said Phil, as they heard his footsteps pass the door of their
+living-room, "we must put off speaking to him till to-morrow. Go to bed
+now, dear. For my part I shall sleep here."</p>
+
+<p>With which he placed a couple of chairs side by side, and threw himself
+upon them. It was a hard bed, but he preferred it to sharing his
+uncle's room.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>It was not until two days after that Phil trudged joyfully off to
+Baverstock House to tell Miss Crawford their uncle had given his
+consent to her kind proposal, and that Millie had at last been
+persuaded to go to the seaside.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford was at home, and delighted to hear that she should now be
+able to give her little protégée the benefit of a change of air.</p>
+
+<p>She told Phil she intended to take the children herself to Bournemouth,
+and see them comfortably established in the cottage. Then she went
+on to say that Dr. Bethune had long wished to carry out this idea of
+sending his little convalescent patients to the country, but want of
+means had hitherto prevented it. It was owing to the fact that a sum of
+money—a thank-offering for recovery from a dangerous illness—had been
+placed at his disposal that he was at length enabled to put his scheme
+into execution.</p>
+
+<p>As Miss Crawford talked to him, Phil remembered her remark to the
+gentleman who had been her companion on Waterloo Bridge. Her words had
+puzzled him at the time: he understood them now.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think you could bring Millie's box and meet us at Waterloo
+Station on Thursday?" Miss Crawford asked him presently.</p>
+
+<p>"I will try," replied Phil. "At what time ought I to be there?"</p>
+
+<p>"The train leaves at one o'clock, but you had better be at the station
+by half-past twelve. Is that an inconvenient hour for you?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think I can manage it," said Phil. "We are not busy at the shop in
+the middle of the day. I dare say they'll give me extra time if I stay
+later at night to make up for it."</p>
+
+<p>"Very well, then, I shall consider it settled. Stay, here is a shilling
+to pay for the cab."</p>
+
+<p>"The box won't be heavy. I can carry it, thank you," said Phil, drawing
+back.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford saw that he preferred to be independent, and did not
+press the matter.</p>
+
+<p>"Now, Phil," she said, as he rose to leave, "I have a parcel for you to
+take home. It is a present for Millie."</p>
+
+<p>The boy crimsoned to the very roots of his hair.</p>
+
+<p>"You are very kind, Miss Crawford," he stammered, "but uncle gave
+Millie some money last night to get some things for herself. I—I think
+she has everything, thank you. You have been—you are—" In his pride and
+his confusion Phil broke down.</p>
+
+<p>"Phil," said Miss Crawford, laying her soft white hand on his shoulder,
+"I understand you, and I admire your independent spirit. But don't you
+know that we are put into the world to bear one another's burdens, and
+to help each other? But how can I help you, if you won't let me? If I
+were poor, and you were rich, would you not give to me?"</p>
+
+<p>Would he not? She read the answer in the shining depths of his earnest,
+loving eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"And, Phil," she continued in a minute or two, "you will be dull
+without Millie. Here is an old drawing-box of my own that I should like
+to give you. It may amuse you in your spare time."</p>
+
+<p>She broke off his thanks, and he went home—heavy-handed, but
+light-hearted.</p>
+
+<p>Great was Millie's gratitude for the contents of that parcel. The
+little serge dress, broad-brimmed hat, and thick pair of boots were
+most acceptable—more acceptable even than Miss Crawford believed
+they would be. Her uncle had certainly given her a small sum, but it
+had been barely sufficient to pay for the pair of stockings and the
+dress that were absolute necessities. The only pair of boots that she
+possessed were so old that she feared that she must ask Phil, or her
+uncle, to get her some new ones. Yet she could not bear the idea of
+doing so; for, as it was, Phil gave up every penny that he earned, and
+had she gone to her uncle she knew that the only way in which he could
+have supplied her need would be to pawn another of their few remaining
+pieces of furniture. So to Millie Miss Crawford's present brought great
+relief and joy, and she received it with no feeling save that of loving
+gratitude.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>On the appointed day, Phil, having obtained permission to extend his
+dinner hour, reached home in a great hurry, to find Millie ready and
+waiting for him. She had had her dinner, but she was so excited at the
+prospect of the journey, and so anxious for the welfare of those whom
+she would leave behind, that eating was a difficult matter. Phil took
+a mouthful as he stood, put some bread and cheese into his pocket, and
+shouldered his sister's box.</p>
+
+<p>Millie had made many friends in the short time that she had lived in
+Swift Street. Now they all gathered round her to wish her a pleasant
+journey, and to say good-bye. Even the rough rude Nora Dickson said
+with something very like a sob in her voice:</p>
+
+<p>"Good-bye, Millie. I'm real sorry to lose you, that I am."</p>
+
+<p>"It won't be for long," called out Millie cheerfully. "I'm glad to go,
+of course, for some things, but I'd sooner stay here, after all."</p>
+
+<p>Phil thought that he never should get her away, but at last the
+good-byes were all said and Millie was trotting along by his side. It
+was an intensely hot day: the sun beat down upon them with an ardour
+that was almost unbearable; the pavement seemed to scorch their feet.
+There was not a breath of air stirring; not a breeze from the river
+even lightened the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. Phil sighed for
+the different scene that would soon gladden his sister's eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Bring me home some seaweed, darling," he said; "I'll bury my nose in
+it, and 'twill seem like a whiff from old Father Neptune himself."</p>
+
+<p>"I wish you were coming too, Phil," she said wistfully.</p>
+
+<p>"Nonsense," he replied, forcing himself to speak lightly. "You'll have
+plenty of company without me, I'll be bound. I dare say Miss Crawford
+will stay with you a good part of the time. O! Millie," he added,
+as a sudden recollection struck him, "Bournemouth is such a pretty
+place. One of the men in the shop used to live there, and he says it's
+perfectly lovely. Write and tell me all about it, won't you?"</p>
+
+<p>She could only nod a reply, for they had arrived at the station, and
+there was Miss Crawford waiting on the platform.</p>
+
+<p>"Good children to be punctual," she said. "I expect the others every
+minute. One of them is a little cripple, so his mother will bring him
+in a cab. Dr. Bethune promised to see the other two safely here. Now,
+Phil," she continued, "don't you think it will be wiser for you not to
+wait? I will take good care of Millie, I assure you."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, perhaps it would. The parting must come. It would do no good to
+linger over it."</p>
+
+<p>Something called away Miss Crawford's attention, or she made believe
+it did, while Millie and Phil said good-bye to each other. Phil had
+no idea it would be such hard work to give his sister that last kiss.
+They had never been separated for a single day before, and now that
+Millie was starting in real earnest, he almost wished that he had never
+persuaded her to leave him, even for so short a time as a fortnight.
+However, he would not let her see how much he felt it. He gave her a
+last loving look, a hurried kiss, and was gone.</p>
+
+<p>He could not return the same way by which he and Millie had come
+together. He chose another road that would take him back to Oxford
+Street by a less familiar route than up Drury Lane. It seemed to Phil
+that, with the loss of his sister, his guardian angel had left him.
+With a sinking heart he thought of the lonely evenings that would now
+be his, and of the long hours of weary waiting for his uncle's return
+at night. How difficult it would be to "keep the peace" after all! Poor
+Phil! With Millie gone, he felt that he had no good influence at work
+to aid him in resisting the temptation to indulge in sullenness and
+discontent. He was helpless indeed, for he knew not how to obtain that
+strength which "is made perfect in weakness."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image016" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image016.jpg" alt="image016">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image017" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image017.jpg" alt="image017">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_6">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>BIG BEN was striking ten as Phil reached home that night. He had stayed
+over time at business to compensate for his long absence in the middle
+of the day, and had walked leisurely back to Swift Street. He did not
+care to hurry himself, for he knew that Millie would not be awaiting
+him, and even Miss Crawford's drawing-box could not make up for her
+absence.</p>
+
+<p>On entering the room he found his uncle already there. He was seated
+at the table with bread and cheese and a jug of ale before him. Phil
+saw by his heated face and bloodshot eyes that he had been drinking. A
+feeling of intense disgust and dislike arose in the boy's heart, but he
+said nothing. He took a chair and sat down as far-away from the table
+as he could.</p>
+
+<p>"Come here, can't you?" said his uncle.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, when you have finished," replied his nephew coolly.</p>
+
+<p>"O! O!" returned his uncle in what he intended to be a satirical voice,
+but his words were so indistinct that Phil could hardly catch them, "so
+you're such a grand gentleman that you can't eat with poor men like
+your relations. A pity you should be dependent upon them, isn't it?"</p>
+
+<p>Phil started up with an angry retort upon his lips, when lo! Millie's
+gentle face and pleading eyes arose in his memory. He sat down again,
+and was silent.</p>
+
+<p>"Come here, I say, can't you?" began Richard Hunt again.</p>
+
+<p>"No, I won't," said Phil doggedly. "Take your own time; when you have
+finished, I'll have my supper."</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't come to the table this minute, I'll turn you out of my
+house, do you hear?" growled the wretched man.</p>
+
+<p>"No, you'll not turn me out, for I'll go of my own accord," cried Phil,
+his subdued passion breaking suddenly forth. "I'll rub along somehow
+till Millie comes back, and then she shall choose between you and me.
+But mind, the moment I can offer her a decent home, no power of yours
+shall keep us apart. I'll have her then, whether you will or no."</p>
+
+<p>Never before had Phil spoken to him in that manner. For a moment he was
+literally struck dumb with amazement. Then he shouted in a fury of rage
+and drunkenness:</p>
+
+<p>"You dare to speak to me like that?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I dare," returned Phil, with flashing eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Then I'll—I'll—"</p>
+
+<p>Rising from his chair, he staggered towards his nephew, who stood with
+his arms folded across his breast, biting his lips and breathing hard,
+as he watched his uncle's approach. But Phil was not a coward, and
+there was no trace of fear upon his countenance.</p>
+
+<p>It was by no means a dignified or safe proceeding on Mr. Hunt's part.
+The floor appeared to be swaying beneath his feet, and he clutched
+hurriedly at the table, at the wall, at anything, in fact, that would
+support his unsteady steps. He was close upon Phil, and had raised his
+arm as if to strike him, when he suddenly lost his balance. To recover
+it, he grasped, as he thought, the little shelf on which Millie kept
+her books. Instead of that, however, his hand descended heavily upon
+Miss Crawford's drawing-box which had been placed there for safety, and
+which, being wider than the shelf, projected some little distance from
+it. There was a crash—down tumbled the box, and down went Richard Hunt
+at full length upon the floor.</p>
+
+<p>It was useless to give vent to his anger in words. Phil silently picked
+up the scattered paints and pencils, and replaced them in the box.</p>
+
+<p>His uncle made a few desperate struggles to regain his feet, but
+finding that impossible, he turned over on his side, and lay there a
+most deplorable object. He muttered a few incoherent words, but they
+gradually ceased, and, to his nephew's disgust, he was soon snoring
+heavily.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image018" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image018.jpg" alt="image018"></figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>As Phil was about to extinguish the light,</b><br>
+<b>a sudden thought struck him.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"Will nothing bring him to his senses?" said Phil to himself, as, his
+passion having subsided, he glanced with loathing at the unconscious
+object of his remarks. "He gets worse and worse. I cannot stay here
+alone with him. I'd sooner sleep under an archway, or in any hole I can
+creep into, than with such a wretch as that. I'll put out the candle in
+case of accident, and be off."</p>
+
+<p>As Phil was about to extinguish the light, a sudden thought struck him.
+His uncle had a deep and intense horror of fire; had always had indeed
+since the terrible accident that had killed his little baby-girl. A
+good blaze would frighten his uncle out of his wits, or perhaps into
+them, and Phil smiled grimly at his miserable joke. Besides he felt
+that it would be a sweet revenge for those insulting words that his
+uncle had cast at him. If only he could manage to kindle a fire that
+would do no damage to the house, and yet be sufficient to lighten up
+the room brilliantly, and restore his uncle to his senses!</p>
+
+<p>Well would it have been for Phil had he resolutely put aside the evil
+desires that prompted him! Little did he know what misery and trouble
+he was bringing upon himself and others by indulging in that wicked
+spirit of hatred and revenge. Millie! Millie! Is your dear presence
+so near, and yet has your gentle face no power to stop him? See, Phil
+studies how best he can put his plan into execution, but for some time,
+he shakes his head negatively at each suggestion.</p>
+
+<p>"I have it," he exclaims at last.</p>
+
+<p>In the fender, piled up for the morning's use, are a number of little
+bits of dry wood, and a heap of straw and shavings, which Millie had
+considerately put there before she left. With trembling fingers Phil
+places the candlestick in the fender, and builds around it with the
+sticks and shavings, till only half the candle, which is a long one, is
+visible above the heap. It will blaze up finely presently, he thinks.
+His uncle will be sure to wake and the flames will frighten him well
+night to death—and Phil laughs triumphantly. Perhaps he'll be sober
+for a good while after that. Anyhow it shall be a lesson to him. Then
+surveying his work with a wicked delight, and with a last glance at
+his uncle, who is still snoring on the floor, he goes out of the room
+resolving to spend the night as best he can in the streets.</p>
+
+<p>On the landing he pauses. Something whispers him to enter the tiny
+room belonging to his sister. Would that he had yielded to that better
+impulse!</p>
+
+<p>But no, he creeps downstairs, and passes unnoticed into the narrow
+street, where he mingles with the noisy crowd. He runs hither and
+thither in his excitement. His blood is tingling with a savage pleasure
+at the thought of the deed which he has just accomplished. He gloats
+over it, and laughs aloud as he pictures what will happen by-and-by in
+Swift Street. But presently getting very warm and very tired, he leans
+against a door-post to rest himself; and with quietness and reflection
+a feeling comes over him that after all he has done a childish and a
+foolish thing. The little pile of sticks and rubbish will blaze away
+around the hissing candle for a few minutes, and then die out again,
+while his uncle, unconscious even of the event, will remain undisturbed.</p>
+
+<p>And now that he has carried out his grand speech about leaving home,
+what is he to do? He knows of no place where he can pass the night. He
+has read of archways under which little homeless children creep for
+shelter, but just now he cannot recall to his memory the situation of a
+single one. Besides, to lie in the open air and the dirt, with anybody
+that might choose to keep him company! He grows sick at the very idea.
+He has fourpence in his pocket. It will be a rough lodging that so
+small a sum can procure, but that is what he must seek, he supposes. He
+need not go in search of it just at present, however. He has plenty of
+time and he will put off the evil moment as long as possible.</p>
+
+<p>So he wanders disconsolately up and down the Strand, watching the
+people as they come out of the theatres, and drive away in their
+carriages. A young lady with fair hair and a pretty face reminds him
+of Miss Crawford. Phil cannot bear to think of her. What would she say
+if she knew how he had been keeping his promise to her and Millie? How
+disappointed she will be in him! She will never believe him, never
+trust in him again.</p>
+
+<p>With fresh anguish at his heart, he leaves the noisy crowded Strand,
+goes down Wellington Street, and passes on to Waterloo Bridge, just as
+he had done with Millie on that moonlight night a few weeks ago. On the
+very same seat that they had occupied then, he sits down now. Poor boy!
+Already he regrets the hasty measures that he has taken, but his pride
+is too great to allow him to return to his uncle. Big Ben's ruddy face
+tells him that it is not yet twelve. How slowly the time goes! There
+will be hours yet before morning. He buries his face in his hands and
+acknowledges how foolishly he has behaved. Conscience whispers him to
+forget his uncle's words and go back to Swift Street. Again his pride
+refuses to let him, and he remains there seated on the bridge.</p>
+
+<p>Presently there flashes across his memory the story of Millie's dream.
+She had said, "I stretched out my hand to you again, Phil, but you were
+gone; I could not see you anywhere."</p>
+
+<p>Suppose that dream meant something after all—that his father and mother
+and sister would all meet together some day in another world, and that
+he would be shut out from their company, and left alone. It was likely
+enough to happen, Phil groaned in his misery. He guessed, if the truth
+were known, that he and his uncle were suitable companions for each
+other. He was going to the bad as fast as he could go. And yet he had
+intended to do well. Miss Crawford had bidden him take heart, and lead
+a nobler, a more unselfish life. Not in so many words, perhaps, but
+Phil had understood her meaning and had pledged himself to fulfil her
+wishes. Here was a fine ending to his grand resolutions!</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps, after all, it was not too late. He would go back and take up
+his life from where he had left it only a couple of hours ago. Most
+probably his uncle would have forgotten their quarrel, and the bitter
+words that had been uttered on both sides. And he would try to do
+better. Ah! If only Millie had not gone! But perhaps God would help
+him if he asked Him. Miss Crawford believed in God, he knew, and so
+did Millie. With that thought, he turned his back to the pavement, and
+with his eyes fixed on the starry sky, he humbly prayed that God would
+forgive, and bless, and help him. Then, with a heavy heart, he retraced
+his footsteps.</p>
+
+<p>What is the cry which he hears as he once more emerges into the busy
+Strand? He stands still to listen—"Fire! Fire!"</p>
+
+<p>Surely—? O! No, not that; not his work. God forbid! Phil, always fleet
+of foot, flies like lightning towards home. How dear the place has
+suddenly become to him!</p>
+
+<p>"Fire! Fire!" is still the shout.</p>
+
+<p>He is in the midst of a crowd now, but he dives under the elbow of one
+and pushes aside another with a strength that astonishes even himself.</p>
+
+<p>"Fire! Fire!"</p>
+
+<p>"Where?" some one asks.</p>
+
+<p>"In Swift Street," is the reply.</p>
+
+<p>Phil hears, and the words enter his heart like a sword. He is quickly
+there. Yes, yes, it is, as something had seemed to tell him from that
+first cry of "Fire! Fire!"</p>
+
+<p>Smoke and flames are issuing from the top story of one of the
+houses—their house. The inmates are rushing from it, and from the
+neighbouring dwellings, in terrible confusion. Little children, with
+just a shawl or a blanket wrapped around them, are handed over to the
+excited crowd; men and women, half dressed, are huddling together with
+pale terrified faces, or running hither and thither to see that their
+friends are in safety. Phil makes his way through the throng of people
+to where a little group are gathered around a man who lies in a half
+unconscious state upon the ground.</p>
+
+<p>"Uncle," shrieks Phil, "I have killed you." But nobody in the
+excitement and bustle of the moment heeds that bitter cry of remorse.</p>
+
+<p>At the familiar voice, Richard Hunt opens his eyes, and says hoarsely:</p>
+
+<p>"The little lass! Save her, Phil!"</p>
+
+<p>"She is away—at Bournemouth. Don't you remember?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, not gone—come back—save her," he replies, and then sinks back
+exhausted.</p>
+
+<p>With a bound Phil gains the door of their house, from which smoke is
+now rapidly issuing. Eager hands are put forth to hold him back, but
+before they can prevent it, he is rushing up the narrow staircase in
+frantic haste. Hotter grows the air as he ascends. He can scarcely
+breathe now. O the cruel flames that lick around him! With a desperate
+struggle, he reaches the last flight. What is this bundle on the
+topmost stair? It is she—Millie in her little white night-dress; her
+long hair floating down her back, her small hands folded in prayer.</p>
+
+<p>"'Tis I—Phil," he shouts. "I'll save you, Millie."</p>
+
+<p>But she is dead, or in a faint, and does not hear him. He snatches her
+from the ground, and taking her in his arms, gropes his way through the
+smoke that almost suffocates him. Down the stairs he goes, staggering
+beneath the weight of his load. His heart beats wildly and he feels his
+strength failing him. O, he must hold out a moment longer; he is nearly
+at the bottom.</p>
+
+<p>He hears a sudden cry from without—"The engine! The engine!"</p>
+
+<p>Friends are cheering him on—"Bravo! Well done, brave boy," they shout.</p>
+
+<p>Thank God! The air grows cooler. Only a few more steps and then—a crash
+from above, and a burning beam comes tumbling down. Phil sees the
+danger, and bends his body forward to avert the blow from his precious
+burden. He sinks beneath the weight of the descending wood; but even
+as he falls, a couple of brave firemen rush to the rescue. They throw
+off the blazing log, raise the fearless boy—helpless and unconscious
+now—and carry both children in safety to the open air.</p>
+
+<p>The fireman who holds Millie in his arms thinks at first that she is
+dead, but she has only fainted. She is not burnt, her night-dress is
+hardly scorched; some of her pretty hair is singed, "that is all," the
+people say. How they clap and cheer the brave men who have saved them!
+But their loudest cheers are for Phil himself, who lies there so white
+and still—for Phil, whose noble act of heroism will never pass from the
+memories of those who witnessed it.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image019" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image019.jpg" alt="image019">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image020" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image020.jpg" alt="image020">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_7">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>IN THE HOSPITAL.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>IT was many hours before Phil regained consciousness.</p>
+
+<p>He opened his eyes to find himself occupying a bed in a hospital ward.
+How came he there? He wondered—and O! What a fearful pain quivered in
+his right shoulder and down his back! By his bedside stood a gentleman
+who met his questioning glance with a smile, and said gently:</p>
+
+<p>"You are in safe hands, Phil. I think you have heard my name before. I
+am Dr. Bethune, Miss Crawford's friend."</p>
+
+<p>"What is the matter with me? Who brought me here?" Phil asked faintly.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you remember? Your house caught fire, and in saving your sister,
+you got badly burnt."</p>
+
+<p>Yes, Phil remembered now. The hot blood rushed to his face, and then
+receded, leaving him deadly pale.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't talk, my boy," said Dr. Bethune. "I will explain it to you,
+and then you must lie still, and try to go to sleep. Millie is well
+and uninjured. You saved her life. Had it not been for your heroism
+and noble self-forgetfulness, she must have perished in the fire.
+Unfortunately a burning piece of wood fell upon your shoulder before
+you reached the bottom of the stairs. I fear you will have a good deal
+of pain to bear, but we are clever people here, and mean to pull you
+through if such a thing be possible."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand," said Phil feebly and making long pauses between
+each sentence, "I don't understand how Millie came to be at home. I
+thought she had gone away with Miss Crawford. I took her to the station
+myself."</p>
+
+<p>"And they would have gone, Phil, but at the last minute it was found
+impossible for one of the children, a little crippled boy, to leave
+London until the following day. He could not travel alone, and Miss
+Crawford thought it better to wait for him. So Millie went home again."</p>
+
+<p>Phil closed his eyes. His throbbing head would not let him think, and
+the pain in his back made him sick and faint. He tried to move, but
+with a low moan of agony, he gave up the attempt, and lay with a white
+face and knitted brow, trying to bear his suffering as best he might.</p>
+
+<p>"Poor fellow!" said Dr. Bethune compassionately. Then he gave him a
+draught that seemed to have the effect of deadening his pain, for
+presently he fell asleep.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Days passed, and Phil grew no better. Millie came to visit him as soon
+as she was allowed. He was happier after he had seen her; for she
+looked no worse than usual—a little paler perhaps, that was all. The
+only drop of comfort in Phil's bitter cup of sorrow was that he had
+saved his sister; he had risked his life for hers. He recollected some
+sweet words that he used to hear his mother read on Sunday evenings at
+Chormouth:</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for
+his friends.'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>He was still greatly perplexed as to how Millie could possibly have
+been in the house on the fatal night of the fire, unknown to him, and
+begged her to explain the mystery.</p>
+
+<p>She told him, as Dr. Bethune had already done, that as one of their
+party was not forthcoming, Miss Crawford had considered it wiser for
+all to postpone the journey till the following day. She then went on
+to say that she returned to Swift Street feeling utterly worn out, and
+with a severe headache that increased as the evening advanced. Her
+uncle came in about nine o'clock, but by that time she was so unwell
+that, after putting the supper on the table, she was obliged to go to
+her room and lie down.</p>
+
+<p>Very soon she fell into a sound sleep—so sound a sleep, indeed, that
+even the crash of the drawing-box as it tumbled to the floor did not
+disturb her. Poor child! She was accustomed to noises all day and
+all night. She awoke to find herself half suffocated with smoke; and
+great was her horror, on opening the door, to see their sitting-room
+in flames. She endeavoured to escape down the staircase, but fear
+paralysed her limbs, and she sank senseless to the floor.</p>
+
+<p>Phil knew what followed.</p>
+
+<p>She supposed her uncle awoke on the first alarm of fire, and in the
+confusion and terror of the moment completely forgot her. But, Millie
+said, he had scarcely mentioned the awful occurrences of that night,
+and she dared not break upon his reserve, and question him.</p>
+
+<p>Phil rarely spoke to the doctors and nurses, except to thank them for
+their kindness and attention. To Dr. Bethune, however, he sometimes
+opened his heart.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you tell me the truth, Sir?" he said one day, as Dr. Bethune
+stood by his bedside. "Will you tell me if there is any hope for me?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can hardly say at present, Phil," the doctor replied. "Yours is a
+very bad case, and we do not see the improvement that we expected; but
+there is no immediate danger. When there is, you shall know, I promise
+you. All that human skill can do for you will be done, rest assured of
+that."</p>
+
+<p>For a few minutes Phil neither moved nor spoke. Then he said:</p>
+
+<p>"I should like to see Miss Crawford, Sir. I have something to tell her
+in case I should die. Do you think she will come?"</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure she will. You shall see her to-morrow."</p>
+
+<p>Phil smiled gratefully.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>The doctor was as good as his word. He carried Phil's message that same
+evening to Miss Crawford, and early on the following day she was at the
+boy's bedside. To his amazement she took his scorched, blistered hand
+in hers, and reverently kissed it.</p>
+
+<p>Phil pulled it hastily away.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't do that, Miss Crawford," he said. "You don't know what you are
+doing."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I do," she answered, with tears in her eyes, "for I know you to
+be such a brave, fearless boy, that I am proud to own you as my friend."</p>
+
+<p>A sob rose in Phil's throat.</p>
+
+<p>"Miss Crawford, if you don't want me to die of shame, don't speak so,"
+he said humbly. "It is because you don't know that you say so. I asked
+to see you because I could not die with the dreadful load there is upon
+my conscience. I tried to tell Dr. Bethune, but I couldn't get out the
+words. O Miss Crawford, you will hate me so when you hear it."</p>
+
+<p>"Hush, my boy! You must talk quietly if you wish to keep me here," she
+said very soothingly. "I promised Dr. Bethune that I would not let you
+get excited. You are not quite yourself, or you would not say such
+things."</p>
+
+<p>Phil strove to subdue his agitation.</p>
+
+<p>"Lean down closer, Miss Crawford," he said, after a few minutes, "I
+don't want anybody but you to hear. There, let your hand stay under
+mine, so," and Phil laid his on the top of hers, "and when you begin to
+hate me, draw it away; but let me keep it till you do begin to hate me,
+won't you?"</p>
+
+<p>In broken sentences, and with many interruptions, Phil got through his
+story. He need not have feared: Miss Crawford did not withdraw her
+hand; only when he arrived at the very saddest part of all, and he knew
+that she could guess the end, her other hand came to keep the first one
+company. With so gentle a touch did she place it upon Phil's that it
+did not hurt him in the least, while in a voice of infinite pity, and
+with the tears running down her cheeks, she said:</p>
+
+<p>"Poor boy, poor boy! And you went through all that!"</p>
+
+<p>It was over at last. Phil felt inexpressibly relieved that he had
+unburdened his mind, and confessed his sin.</p>
+
+<p>"Phil," said Miss Crawford presently, "I cannot help thinking how good
+God has been to you. Have you thanked Him?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, indeed, I have," he replied. "But sometimes I wish that after I
+had saved Millie, He had let me die. Nobody wants me here. I am no good
+to anybody."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't talk so, dear boy. What, would you have Millie left alone in the
+world?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, that is all I care to live for," he answered sorrowfully; "for
+though I have troubled her so, I know it would break her heart to lose
+me. Miss Crawford," he added earnestly, "if I die, you'll never forget
+Millie, will you?"</p>
+
+<p>"I promise you I will not. I saw her yesterday, and she gave me such
+good news of your uncle. He has been perfectly sober ever since the
+night of the fire."</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad of that for his own and Millie's sake," Phil replied. "I get
+anxious about her at night, and wonder what she is doing." Then after a
+pause he continued, "I should like them to know that I did it; you know
+what I mean. Will you tell them, please?"</p>
+
+<p>"I will, but you must let me choose my own time for doing so. Now,
+Phil, will you make me a promise in return for mine?"</p>
+
+<p>"I will do anything you ask me, Miss Crawford," he replied eagerly,
+delighted at the thought of doing a service for one who had done so
+much for him.</p>
+
+<p>"Then read a chapter from this book every night and every morning,"
+she said as she took from her bag a beautiful little Bible. "See," she
+continued, opening it at the fly leaf, "I have written your name here,
+and beneath, a favourite text of mine—'We love Him, because He first
+loved us.' Phil, I want you to know more about those things that are
+so dear to Millie and me, and this will teach you, if you will read it
+prayerfully. God has been very good to you in saving your life," she
+went on earnestly. "It was wonderful that you escaped, I am told. You
+ought to be very grateful to Him, Phil, and not only full of gratitude,
+but full of love to Him. O! If you once felt how much He loved you, you
+could not help giving back your love in return."</p>
+
+<p>"I will try, Miss Crawford, and you must pray for me," he said humbly.</p>
+
+<p>Very willingly did she promise that she would. Then after a little
+further conversation she took her leave, saying she would come again
+soon.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>As days and weeks rolled on, Phil became gradually stronger and better,
+but still the slightest movement of his back was torture to him, and he
+could not even turn in his bed without assistance. He became at length
+weary and sick with hope deferred.</p>
+
+<p>"Doctor, shall I never walk again?" he said one day to Dr. Bethune, in
+a half-tired, half-impatient voice.</p>
+
+<p>Receiving no answer, he supposed his question had not been heard, but
+as Dr. Bethune at that moment turned hastily away to another patient,
+he had no chance of repeating it.</p>
+
+<p>When Miss Crawford came that afternoon accompanied by Millie, he made
+the same inquiry of her. But she hesitated, and Millie's lips quivered
+as her eyes met her brother's.</p>
+
+<p>"O! Do tell me," he said anxiously. "Surely I shall walk again some
+day!"</p>
+
+<p>Then very gently Miss Crawford told him his spine had been so injured
+by the fall of the burning wood that the doctors feared he would never
+recover from the effects, though in time he might perhaps walk with the
+help of crutches.</p>
+
+<p>"What! Lie still all my life long?" he moaned when she had finished.
+"Never walk nor run again! O! I can't bear it. I'd rather die."</p>
+
+<p>A sob from Millie broke the silence that ensued.</p>
+
+<p>"O my darling brother," she said, as she knelt by his bedside, "I will
+be legs, and feet, and arms, and everything to you, if you'll only let
+me. Uncle knows about it, and he is so sorry for you. He would have
+been to see you, only he's afraid that the sight of him would distress
+you. And he says, Phil, that he'll never touch that dreadful drink
+again as long as he lives, and that you shall never want for a home as
+long as he has health and strength to work for you. And he means it,
+dear. He is so good and kind now."</p>
+
+<p>All this Millie sobbed out at intervals, but Phil made no reply.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't think it unkind of me," he said presently, "but I'd rather be
+alone for a while. I can't talk about it yet."</p>
+
+<p>So they said good-bye to him, and Miss Crawford did what she had never
+done before. She put back the thick black hair from his forehead, bent
+down, and as she kissed him, he heard her whisper, "'Nevertheless not
+my will, but Thine, be done.'"</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>All through that night, a storm of conflicting emotions raged in poor
+Phil's heart. He said to himself that he could not, would not live to
+endure so cruel a fate. What, never walk, nor run, nor jump again?
+Never draw himself up to his full height, and feel that delicious
+sensation of strength and power tingling through every vein in his
+body? Be a helpless cripple all his life long—a thing as useless as
+a log of wood? Be compelled to lie perfectly still? Be at the entire
+mercy of others, utterly dependent upon them for the gratification of
+every wish, the supply of every want? No, it was too hard a punishment
+for such a sin as his had been. What was it but a few passionate words,
+a small act of revenge, committed under great provocation? How was he
+to know that such dire results would be the consequence? They had not
+been his desire. Besides, had he not acknowledged and repented of his
+sin? Had he not gone almost beyond human power to make atonement? O it
+was cruel! It was most unjust!</p>
+
+<p>But lately Phil had learnt something of his Saviour's love, and with
+the dawn of morning a wondrous calm fell upon his troubled mind. It was
+no punishment after all, perhaps. It might be that God had sent this
+hard and bitter trial to prove him. Then, God helping him, he would
+stand the test and "suffer and be strong." Again he seemed to hear the
+sweet, low words:</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'Nevertheless not my will, but Thine, be done.'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>It must have been an angel's voice, Phil thought, for there was no Miss
+Crawford there to whisper lovingly to him. So, with a peaceful smile
+upon his face, he fell asleep, and the first beam of the rising sun,
+stealing across his pillow, made a halo of glory about his head.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image021" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image021.jpg" alt="image021">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image022" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image022.jpg" alt="image022">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_8">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>MILLIE'S REAL FAIRY.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>IT was not until the middle of October that Phil was considered
+sufficiently well to leave the hospital. In consequence of Miss
+Crawford's kindness, without which the plan would have been
+impracticable, it was arranged he should go straight to—Where do you
+think? Why, to dear old Chormouth.</p>
+
+<p>Knowing the benefit that Phil would probably derive from sea air,
+and being well aware that it was the place above all others that he
+would prefer to visit, Miss Crawford had asked Richard Hunt to allow
+his nephew and niece to spend a month in their native village; and
+that there might be no hesitation because of the expense that such an
+arrangement would necessitate, she had expressed her willingness to pay
+more than half the expenses if Mr. Hunt would advance the remainder.</p>
+
+<p>To Millie's openly expressed joy, he gladly consented.</p>
+
+<p>Phil did not say much, perhaps he could not, but Miss Crawford
+understood the look of radiant delight with which he heard the good
+news, and was satisfied that he was happy.</p>
+
+<p>The eventful day of the journey at length arrived. Phil was conveyed
+as comfortably as possible in an invalid's carriage to the station,
+and travelled on his couch in state with Millie and his uncle in close
+attendance.</p>
+
+<p>"You wait upon me as if I were a prince," he said gratefully.</p>
+
+<p>His uncle said nothing, but he smiled and looked pleased. He had been
+an altered man since the night of the fire. With good resolutions to
+lead a different life, there had sprung up within him a great regret
+for his past conduct. He felt deeply too for Phil, and blamed himself
+as being the cause of the accident that had deprived the boy of the use
+of his limbs.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford had never yet breathed a word of what Phil had confessed
+to her, and she made the boy promise that for the present it should
+remain a secret between themselves. She acted from wise motives. She
+hoped Richard Hunt would so learn to pity his nephew, that the pity
+would grow into love, too deep and sincere to be affected by the
+knowledge that Phil's own cruel and revengeful deed had occasioned the
+fire and all the trouble which ensued.</p>
+
+<p>But the boy winced under the unaccustomed kindness of his uncle, and
+longed to make a clear breast of it then and there.</p>
+
+<p>Phil was glad to arrive at his journey's end. It had tired him far more
+than he would have believed possible; every limb was aching, and he was
+so faint and weary when the train drew up at Chormouth Station that
+Millie was quite frightened. They went straight to the rooms that Miss
+Crawford had secured for them in Mrs. Blake's pretty cottage on the
+cliffs, where, as soon as he had seen them comfortably established, and
+Phil reviving, their uncle left them, to return to his work in London.</p>
+
+<p>The sea air did wonders for Phil. He soon began to sit up a few hours
+every day, and great was Millie's joy when he was lifted into a
+bath-chair and she had the happiness of wheeling him along the path at
+the top of the cliffs. Poor boy! He was so light and thin now that she
+could do it without the least fatigue. Then Millie would stop while
+Phil gazed with delight over the vast restless ocean, and watched the
+big white clouds sailing overhead. The neighbours, seeing them there,
+would come up for a chat, or to beg their acceptance of a particularly
+fine fish for their dinner. Phil would hold quite a levée round his
+chair, and there was sure to be quite a contention as to which of
+his old friends should have the pleasure of drawing him back to Mrs.
+Blake's cottage.</p>
+
+<p>Happy days they were! A month flew by all too rapidly, and Millie began
+sorrowfully to think of their return to London. It was not for herself
+that she grieved. She dreaded the effect of the close air of the big
+city on Phil's weak body. The brother and sister had changed places
+indeed, for now she was by far the stronger of the two. But Millie's
+dreary anticipations were never realised, and events occurred that
+never in her wildest dreams had even entered her head.</p>
+
+<p>One cold afternoon—it was too cold and unpleasant a day for Phil to
+leave the house—Millie sat by the window, and gazed thoughtfully
+out upon the grey, stormy sea. It was rarely now that she had the
+opportunity of indulging in quiet thought; but just at present she had
+nothing in particular to do, and Phil was sleeping soundly. He had been
+in great pain during the preceding night, and had slept but little.
+Glad, therefore, that he was getting the rest which he so much needed,
+his sister took care not to disturb him.</p>
+
+<p>Millie had long wished to visit her mother's grave, and this afternoon,
+as old and fond recollections crowded to her memory, the wish grew
+deeper, and she felt that she must go. The churchyard was some distance
+from the village; it was too long a journey for Phil to make over rough
+roads, and she had never liked to leave him while she went alone. But
+now that he was sleeping so quietly, she thought surely she might take
+the opportunity to gratify her desire. After a little hesitation,
+Millie decided that she would go; so having begged Mrs. Blake to keep a
+watchful eye upon Phil, she started off.</p>
+
+<p>Quickly she passed up the straggling street, and by her own old home,
+at sight of which the tears rushed to her eyes, and the yearning at her
+heart grew painful in its intensity. By the village school she went;
+she was glad that the children were not yet dismissed from lessons, and
+that consequently the road was quiet, instead of noisy with the merry
+crowd that would gather there a little later on.</p>
+
+<p>Then climbing the long, steep hill, she arrived at the churchyard where
+her mother lay. She found the grave readily enough, though no stone
+marked the spot with the name of her who rested beneath it. No, there
+was no need for that. Millie singled it out in a moment, and with a
+return of the old loneliness and grief with which she had at first
+mourned her loss, she moaned:</p>
+
+<p>"My mother! O! My mother!"</p>
+
+<p>So she cried out her sorrow there, till she felt relieved and
+comforted. Then she knelt down in the quiet "God's acre" and prayed
+earnestly for herself; and for those she loved. Rising from her knees
+she plucked a few pieces of grass for Phil, and, pressing her lips
+to the cold earth, took a mute farewell of her mother's grave. Then
+observing for the first time how quickly the shades of night were
+falling, she hastily began her homeward journey.</p>
+
+<p>As she approached the churchyard gate, a man entered it from the high
+road, and came towards her. Millie stood aside on the narrow path to
+allow him to pass. On perceiving her, however, the man stopped, and
+said:</p>
+
+<p>"Can you tell me, my child, where to find Mrs. Guntry's grave?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Guntry's?" repeated Millie, thinking that she must have
+misunderstood him.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, she was a friend of mine. I'm a stranger in these parts now,"
+said the man, "and shall soon be off again, but I'd like to see her
+grave before I leave the village."</p>
+
+<p>The voice was strangely familiar to Millie. Where had she heard it
+before? She raised her eyes and gazed anxiously into his face. Why,
+surely it was none other than—</p>
+
+<p>For a moment a feeling of terror seized her. It was so dark that she
+could not see clearly; the wind moaned among the branches of the
+leafless trees, and a superstitious awe seemed to freeze her senses.
+Then the old faith that her father was living, nay, did live, rushed to
+her heart with overwhelming force.</p>
+
+<p>"Why," she said, with a little cry of joy, "'tis father himself.
+Father, dear father, don't you know me?"</p>
+
+<p>"It can't be our little Millie. 'Tis, though, sure enough. Millie, my
+own precious child, I was told—"</p>
+
+<p>You can imagine the rest for yourselves.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*</p>
+
+<p>"Phil," said Millie, trying to tone down the happy ring in her voice,
+but which, nevertheless, would make itself heard, "I am afraid you have
+been dull all by yourself. Don't you want your tea badly? Why didn't
+you begin?"</p>
+
+<p>"I waited for you. Why, how pretty you look to-night, Millie! The
+candle shines upon your face, and your cheeks have such a pretty pink
+colour in them, while as for your eyes, they sparkle like jewels. When
+I get better, I'll try my hand at painting your portrait."</p>
+
+<p>"So you shall, dear. Phil, I have such good news for you."</p>
+
+<p>"Have you? Is Miss Crawford coming down?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, better news than that."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't think of anything that would be better. It would be uncommonly
+jolly to hear we hadn't to go back to London, but might just live here
+always. But that can't be, so it's no good guessing."</p>
+
+<p>"I think it might be managed, dear, after all."</p>
+
+<p>"Have you had a fortune left you, or when you were out, did you meet a
+fairy who made you a present of the wonderful wishing cap?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, that's it, Phil. I met a fairy, a real fairy. My darling, do
+you remember—" Millie changed her voice and spoke seriously and
+solemnly—"do you remember how I have always said, as mother did, that
+father would come back to us again some day?"</p>
+
+<p>Phil breathed hard; his face flushed, then became as pale as death.</p>
+
+<p>"I have seen somebody this afternoon," Millie continued, "who told me
+that I was right after all. Father is alive. We shall see him soon.
+Only think of that, my darling."</p>
+
+<p>But Phil made no answer; he had fainted, and Millie's cry for help
+brought her father and Mrs. Blake to his bedside.</p>
+
+<p>As soon as there were signs of returning consciousness, Millie
+whispered her father to leave the room till she had more fully prepared
+her brother to meet him. Then, when Phil had quite recovered, she made
+him drink his tea and eat a piece of toast before she would allow him
+to say a word.</p>
+
+<p>Millie was vexed with herself beyond measure. She accused herself of
+having been too hasty, and not sufficiently careful in breaking the
+news to him; but had she been twenty times more gentle, Phil's nerves
+were so weakened by suffering, that the least shock would have unnerved
+and prostrated him.</p>
+
+<p>He knew all at last, and there was indeed a joyful meeting between
+father and son. How they feasted their eyes on each other, and how
+Philip Guntry's heart sank as he noted the bright hectic flush upon the
+boy's cheek, the wasted body, and the thin trembling hands!</p>
+
+<p>"O father, it's so nice to have you," Phil said when, the first
+raptures over, he began quietly to realise his happiness. "You won't
+go to sea again, but you'll stay with us, and nurse me, won't you?
+Though," he added in an undertone so that Millie might not catch the
+words, "I don't think I shall be here so very long to want you."</p>
+
+<p>Then nothing would do but that he must be wrapped in the warm flannel
+dressing-gown Miss Crawford had given, and that his father must take
+him in his arms and nurse him, "just as you used when I was a baby, you
+know," he said.</p>
+
+<p>And Millie, drawing up a low stool, leant her head against her father's
+knee.</p>
+
+<p>Sitting thus, they listened to the story of Philip Guntry's
+preservation in the midst of awful and many dangers.</p>
+
+<p>He told them how, on one fearful night, when the winds were roaring
+like thunder among the sails, and the waves were dashing mountains
+high, the "Cynthia" struck upon a rock. There was barely time to get
+out the boats before the vessel sank. He and seven others were the last
+to leave the wreck.</p>
+
+<p>During many hours of darkness they tossed about in their frail boat, at
+the mercy of wind and waves. When morning dawned they saw no signs of
+the rest of the crew, and doubted not they were the only persons saved.
+For days they drifted along, starvation staring them in the face, and
+they had begun to despair of their lives, when, to their joy, they
+sighted land.</p>
+
+<p>It proved to be an uninhabited island, where for many months the
+sailors, lived as best they could. They made some kind of shelter
+for themselves, fed principally on the eggs of sea-fowl, and kept a
+constant watch for a passing vessel. A long time elapsed, however,
+before the welcome sail appeared in sight, and O! How anxiously and
+eagerly they waited to see whether the thin curl of smoke arising
+from their fire of dried leaves and wood would be observed, and bring
+friends to their assistance!</p>
+
+<p>And their hope was realised, a boat being sent out from the ship to
+fetch the poor fellows on board. The vessel was bound for a distant
+colony, and as soon as it reached its destination, Philip Guntry sought
+for and obtained a berth in a vessel homeward bound. Owing to various
+delays the passage had been a tardy one, but he reached England at
+last, and set out at once for Chormouth. Arrived at Moultonsea, a large
+town about four miles from Chormouth, he had met with an old comrade,
+who told him the sorrowful news of his wife's death, and that his
+children were living with their uncle in London.</p>
+
+<p>"I couldn't bear to go away till I had seen your mother's grave,"
+Philip Guntry said in a husky voice, as he finished his story, "or I
+should have gone straight to London. A good thing it was I came, for
+here I found my little daughter; and," he added, as his encircling arm
+drew her closer to him, "a right welcome sight she was."</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford and Richard Hunt each received a letter from Millie
+containing the glad news. The former rejoiced with them in their
+happiness as deeply as she had sympathised with them in their troubles,
+and their uncle begged a holiday from his employers and hastened off
+to Chormouth to greet his brother-in-law. He brought with him a long
+letter for Millie from Miss Crawford, and inside it there was a tiny
+note addressed to Phil, and marked "Private."</p>
+
+<p>It contained only one line.</p>
+
+<p>"You may tell everything now, dear Phil."</p>
+
+<p>Phil was glad to have permission to speak; for the weight of the
+secret had been a heavy burden to bear. He longed to confess and ask
+forgiveness of his uncle, even as he had confessed his sill to God.
+That he might die with the deed still upon his conscience, had often
+been an appalling thought.</p>
+
+<p>It was when they were all gathered around the cheerful fire on the
+Sunday evening of Richard Hunt's visit, and Phil was again enfolded
+in his father's strong arms—no other resting place was half so
+comfortable—that he said:</p>
+
+<p>"Uncle, I have something to tell you. I fear you will hardly be able
+to forgive me. I wanted to tell you long ago, but Miss Crawford would
+not let me. I—I—O," he continued, leaning forward his poor bent body,
+and putting up his hands in supplication, "if I could, I would kneel at
+your feet and beg your forgiveness for what I did, but I can't. Uncle,
+it was not through any fault of yours that the house caught fire. I did
+it to frighten you. I set it on fire myself."</p>
+
+<p>There was a dead silence. They all fancied he was rambling in his mind,
+and so did not know what he was saying.</p>
+
+<p>Phil swallowed down the thickness in his throat, and went on:</p>
+
+<p>"You were not sober that night. You said some hard words to me, but I
+deserved them. O yes, I know I did. I was very angry, and wanted to
+'pay you out.' Don't turn away from me, uncle—" that was the boy's
+fancy, Richard Hunt had but put his hand to his face to brush away a
+tear—"I have been so sorry ever since. I deserve to be a cripple all
+my life. I put the shavings and the wood around the candlestick, and
+I hoped it would flare up and frighten you out of your sleep. I never
+thought—I never dreamt the house would be burnt. I went out in the
+streets for an hour or two, and came back just in time to—you know,"
+and he pointed to Millie. "Uncle, can you forgive me now?"</p>
+
+<p>"My poor Phil! 'Forgive you?' Will you forgive 'me?'" sobbed Richard
+Hunt, fairly overcome, and to Phil's amazement, he sank on his knees
+before him.</p>
+
+<p>Phil bent down—he could just manage to do that—and kissing his uncle,
+said gratefully and reverently:</p>
+
+<p>"You have made me so happy, dear uncle. Thank you very much. May God
+forgive us both!"</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image023" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image023.jpg" alt="image023">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image024" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image024.jpg" alt="image024">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h3><a id="Chapter_9">CHAPTER IX.</a></h3>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b>STRONGER THAN DEATH.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>SO the brighter days that Millie had talked about in Drury Lane had
+really come! Their father obtained work at Moultonsea, where he went
+to and fro by rail morning and evening. Then their old cottage in the
+village street happening to be empty ("It seemed to be on purpose,"
+Phil said), they moved into it before Christmas. Little by little,
+too, they got back the greater part of their old furniture, for the
+neighbours who had purchased it, offered it to them at the same prices
+which they themselves had paid for it, while those who could afford
+to be generous came and begged them to accept as a gift a chair, a
+bedstead, or table, as the case might be.</p>
+
+<p>There was hardly any perceptible change in Phil. If anything, he grew
+weaker, but they fondly hoped it was only the winter weather that tried
+him. Millie was his devoted nurse during the day; her father taking her
+place at night. If he was well enough, and the weather was favourable,
+she would wheel him out in his chair, but that happened less and less
+frequently as time advanced. It hurt his back, he said. What he liked
+best was to be carried in his father's arms around their little garden
+on a Sunday afternoon. That never tired him, and he loved to listen to
+the mellow pealing of the bells, as they rang the villagers to church.</p>
+
+<p>"What a big, old baby I am, father!" he would say saucily.</p>
+
+<p>To which, with a loving smile, his father would answer:</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder you aren't ashamed to be such a plague at your age," but all
+the while, he noticed with a heavy heart that every time he lifted his
+"baby," he found the load a lighter one.</p>
+
+<p>At the beginning of spring there came a more noticeable change. Then
+even Millie, who was always making herself believe that Phil would
+be well and strong again some day, perceived only too plainly that
+he daily became weaker, and his appetite less. She was glad when the
+drawing which he intended to give Miss Crawford was at length finished,
+for even the exertion of holding a pencil fatigued him.</p>
+
+<p>"You won't begin anything else, will you, dear?" she said when, having
+pronounced his sketch completed, he called his sister to admire it.</p>
+
+<p>"No, Millie, but I wanted to give Miss Crawford something that would
+make her remember me. She'll hang this up in her room, I know, and
+she'll think of me whenever she looks at it." Then after a pause, he
+said in a voice that was full of longing, "I should so like to see her
+again, Millie, before I die."</p>
+
+<p>"You will not leave us yet, darling, I hope," replied Millie, bravely
+keeping back her tears, "but if you wish, I'll write and tell her what
+you say."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think she would come?"</p>
+
+<p>"I am sure she will. I'll send her a letter at once."</p>
+
+<p>"There's no great hurry, you know," said Phil, "but somehow I feel that
+I shall never be any better. I shall gradually get worse and worse.
+Don't cry, dear—" for Millie could no longer control her tears. "I am
+very happy. I am not afraid to die. I would rather it should be so.
+Remember, if I lived, I should be a helpless, suffering invalid, a
+burden upon you all. It's far better as it is."</p>
+
+<p>He stroked her hair lovingly, calling her by the many pet names he had
+for her, and he would not let her go till she had smiled again.</p>
+
+<p>Millie's letter went that night, and by a singular coincidence she
+received one from Miss Crawford the very next morning. It contained
+wonderful news. Millie could hardly believe her eyes as she read it.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Crawford said that her brother had again been seriously ill, that
+she herself was far from well, and that her father, hoping the change
+would benefit both his son and daughter, had decided to rent a house in
+the country for a few months. Hearing in a most unexpected manner of a
+villa to be let near Chormouth, they had, taken it, and soon, she told
+Millie, she might expect to see her.</p>
+
+<p>How delighted Millie was, to be sure! But though Phil said little, his
+joy was deeper than his sister's.</p>
+
+<p>With Miss Crawford's presence, Phil's last desire was gratified. The
+house that Mr. Crawford had taken was about a couple of miles from
+Chormouth, but she drove over nearly every day to see the dying boy—for
+that he was gradually, but surely, dying was now apparent to all.</p>
+
+<p>On one occasion she told him that she was engaged to be married to Dr.
+Bethune.</p>
+
+<p>"I am very glad, Miss Crawford," he said simply. "I thought so all
+along."</p>
+
+<p>"Did you, Phil?" she replied. "I thought it would be a great surprise
+to you."</p>
+
+<p>"Shall you be married soon?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, very soon now," she said; "that is why I told you about it. If
+all be well, I shall be married on the first of June. Only one thing
+will grieve me," she added fondly, "and that is, that after my wedding
+I shall not be able to visit you. We shall live in London then."</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad of that," Phil said heartily. "The people are so poor and
+so miserable there, and you will make some of them happier, I know.
+They want somebody to help them. What should I have done without you, I
+wonder!"</p>
+
+<p>"Dear Phil, I have done very little for you," she replied, with tears
+in her eyes. "We will do more for others if it please God to give us
+the means and the health."</p>
+
+<p>When she rose to wish him good-bye, she said: "I shall come oftener
+than ever to see you now that I shall so soon be leaving you."</p>
+
+<p>"It's a long time yet before the first of June," he remarked. "You'll
+be married in London, I suppose, Miss Crawford?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, down here in the country. If you tried hard, you might be able to
+hear my wedding bells."</p>
+
+<p>"I should like to see you in your pretty dress," he said wistfully,
+"but I'm afraid I shan't be well enough to get so far as the church if
+I tried ever so. Perhaps by that time—"</p>
+
+<p>He broke off hastily, and with a smile bade her good-bye, telling her
+to be sure to come very often.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>And she did, but Phil grew hourly weaker, and they feared that each
+day would be his last. He was very patient. They only knew that he was
+in pain by the flush on his face, the closed eyes and knitted brow.
+He rarely uttered a sound, never one of complaint; only sometimes a
+low cry of weariness would break from him. He gave up going out of
+doors entirely; he could not even bear to be carried in his father's
+arms. The village doctor who attended him said that at any moment the
+flickering breath of the boy's life might be extinguished.</p>
+
+<p>Every evening his father hurried home, dreading, yet expecting to hear
+that his boy was gone. But no, the light of Phil's life burned on, very
+feebly, almost imperceptibly at times, but still it burned.</p>
+
+<p>It was the last day of May. Phil was expecting Miss Crawford to pay him
+her farewell visit. She had not forgotten the boy's wistful eyes when
+he told her how he wished he could see her in her pretty wedding dress,
+and she resolved to gratify him, if he still desired it. She knew that
+it would be the last pleasure in her power to give him. So when she
+drove that afternoon to Chormouth, the box containing her wedding dress
+and veil went in the carriage with her.</p>
+
+<p>She passed into Phil's room, and after some conversation—which was
+cheerful in spite of their coming separation—she asked him if he still
+cared to see her in her bridal attire; for if he did, she said, it
+would be no trouble to put it on. He was delighted at the idea, and
+when she came from Millie's room in her beautiful dress of glistening
+satin and lace, the lovely picture that she made almost took his breath
+away. He gazed at her to his heart's content while she stood in the
+centre of the room, blushing a little, beneath the scrutinising glances
+of the brother and sister.</p>
+
+<p>She had never yet received the sketch that Phil had drawn for her.
+He begged Millie to fetch it now, and gave it to Miss Crawford "as a
+wedding gift with his dear love."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear Phil, thank you very much, I shall treasure it all my life long
+for your sake."</p>
+
+<p>"I shall think of you to-morrow," he said. "I shall have the window
+open and listen for the bells."</p>
+
+<p>"And I shall think of you, and pray for you. You must pray for me, too,
+that my future life may be blessed and happy."</p>
+
+<p>He smiled his answer.</p>
+
+<p>"Say good-bye to me in that dress, please, Miss Crawford," he
+continued, presently. "I should like always to keep you in my memory
+just as you are now. You are all white and shining, and you brighten
+the room like an angel of light. To think of you so will help me to
+bear my pain. I shall only have to close my eyes to see you again."</p>
+
+<p>Stooping down over the bed, and taking his hand in hers, she put back
+her long floating veil, and again kissed him, as she had done in the
+hospital ward months ago.</p>
+
+<p>He smiled gratefully and lovingly, and so keeping his eyes on her as
+she walked towards the door, Phil saw the white-robed figure pass out
+from his gaze for ever.</p>
+
+<p>Soon after that he fell asleep. Going out on tip-toe to meet her father
+when he came in from his work, Millie brought him into Phil's room.
+Together they sat by his bedside and watched him. For the dying boy,
+the light of life was indeed burning dimly.</p>
+
+<p>"Millie," he said suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it, dear? We thought you were asleep."</p>
+
+<p>"No, I have been thinking. My pain is all gone, and such beautiful
+things came into my mind. Will you say my verse to me?" He always spoke
+of the text that Miss Crawford had written in his Bible as his verse.
+"I like to hear your voice."</p>
+
+<p>She did so:</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'We love Him, because He first loved us.'"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>"Isn't it sweet?" he said, with a smile lighting up his face. "O!
+Millie," he went on earnestly, "I am so glad now that it ever happened.
+It seemed so hard at first. I couldn't understand that it was done in
+love. O! The love of the Lord Jesus! I was hard and wicked, and it
+softened me and won me over in spite of myself. Love has done it all
+through—first yours, then Miss Crawford's, and then the greatest love
+of all—the love that is stronger than death. Don't cry, Millie dear,
+there's nothing to grieve for."</p>
+
+<p>She smiled through her tears and caressed his hand lovingly.</p>
+
+<p>He said no more, and presently fell asleep again.</p>
+
+<p>Hours passed before he opened his eyes and spoke again.</p>
+
+<p>"Millie, tell me your dream once more."</p>
+
+<p>She did not understand, and asked gently, what dream he meant.</p>
+
+<p>"The dream you told me on the bridge in London. I want to hear it
+again."</p>
+
+<p>Kneeling down by his bedside, and forcing herself to speak in a clear
+voice, she began:</p>
+
+<p>"I dreamt, dear, that you and I lived here together, just as we did
+at Mrs. Blake's cottage, only that you were quite well and strong;
+and that one beautiful night, when the moon shone brightly—see, it is
+shining so to-night—you and I walked on the sands at low tide. I had a
+great longing upon me to go to mother. I thought the glistening ladder
+of light the moon shed across the sea seemed a way that would lead us
+to her. You said you would come too, and hand-in-hand we ran over the
+sands. But when we came to the water's edge, there stood father, and
+though we tried, we could not pass under his outstretched arms. He
+asked us where we were going, and when I told him, he begged us to come
+back, and wait till he was ready to go with us. Then—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes," said Phil, interrupting her, but speaking in so low a voice
+that they had to bend down their ears to catch the words—"Yes, yes, I
+remember. I couldn't wait; I had gone on. Father, you and Millie will
+come together some day."</p>
+
+<p>There was a long silence. The father and daughter knew that the light
+was going out fast. Day was just breaking, when again the weak,
+quivering voice was heard:</p>
+
+<p>"Give my love to uncle. Tell him I would not have it different—I
+am going on first, that's all.—Don't let her know till after she's
+married.—Cleansed in the blood—Drawn with the bands of love.—Look,
+Millie! The silvery pathway is shining just as it did when you saw
+it.—Why—why, mother!—"</p>
+
+<p>Phil started up in bed, drew one deep gasp, and fell back upon his
+pillow—dead.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*</p>
+
+<p>The knell tolled at Chormouth, and mingled its sounds with the distant
+echo of Miss Crawford's wedding bells, but she knew not till days after
+that Phil's happy spirit had passed away from earth on her marriage
+morn.</p>
+
+<p>Dr. Bethune is a famous physician now.</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+<br>
+"Little feet pattering and little tongues chattering—"<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>are heard from morning till night in his house. His wife, amid all her
+duties, still finds time and opportunity to carry on the good work
+which she began years ago. Phil's picture hangs in her bedroom, and the
+story of his life and death is familiar to all her children.</p>
+
+<p>Richard Hunt never returned to his old habits of intemperance. He now
+lives in a healthy suburb of London, and is highly esteemed by his
+neighbours. He, too, has reasons to remember Phil. In speaking of him,
+he utters his name reverently, as if it bore a sacred charm.</p>
+
+<p>Millie and her father still live in the old cottage at Chormouth,
+but there are rumours abroad that a certain young farmer in the
+neighbourhood has asked her to become his wife and that she has
+consented.</p>
+
+<p>So there are changes in store for Millie. But after all, it will still
+be home, for her father will be near her; and from the windows of the
+farmhouse in which she will live can be seen two graves in a corner of
+the churchyard, those of her mother and her brother. A marble stone,
+placed there by Mrs. Bethune, stands between the two. It bears the name
+of both, and below are the words so full of memory to Millie—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"WE LOVE HIM BECAUSE HE FIRST LOVED US."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image025" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image025.jpg" alt="image025">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+PRINTED AT THE OTTO WORKS<br>
+<br>
+FETTER LANE, LONDON.<br>
+<br>
+JAMES BEVERIDGE, MANAGER.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75351 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #75351 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75351)