Won Over: The Story of a Boy's Life, by Nellie Hellis │ Project Gutenberg

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?"

"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?"

"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.

"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."

Millie thought that he was ungraciously ignoring her request, and replied in rather a hurt voice—

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

CHAPTER II.

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."

CHAPTER III.

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.

He had come home sober that evening—a rare occurrence—and was showing an unusual amount of interest in domestic matters.

"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."

"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:

"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?"

"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.

"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?"

"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.

"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:

"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:

"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?"

"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.

CHAPTER IV.

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.

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."

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.

"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."

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."

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:

"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!"

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.

CHAPTER V.

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."

"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."

"Isn't she a darling?" cried Millie enthusiastically, when Miss Crawford had gone.

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.

"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."

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."

"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."

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:

"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."

"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."

CHAPTER VI.

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.

"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.

"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:

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.

"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.

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!

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER VII.

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."

"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.

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."

"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?"

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.

"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."

"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."

"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:

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."

"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."

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.

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."

"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."

"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:

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.

CHAPTER VIII.

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.

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.

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:

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:

"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—"

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"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.

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."

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.

"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!"

CHAPTER IX.

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.

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

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.

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—

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Won over

WON OVER:

CHAPTER I.