path: root/75351-0.txt

*** 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 ***