Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.
WON OVER:
THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.
BY
NELLIE HELLIS
AUTHOR OF "ROVING ROBIN," "MARTIN DRAYTON'S SIN," ETC., ETC.
LONDON:
T. WOOLMER, 2, CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, E.C.,
AND 66, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
1885.
To my Father,
IN GRATEFUL RECOGNITION OF HIS
LOVING HELP AND SYMPATHY.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
[II.—HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON]
[III.—WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT]
WON OVER:
THE STORY OF A BOY'S LIFE.
[CHAPTER I.]
BIGAROONS AND BITTERNESS.
IT was a hot day in July, and twelve o'clock was striking from a neighbouring church as a little girl came from one of the narrow streets that open into Drury Lane, and walked rapidly in the direction of Oxford Street. Her face, generally very pale, was now flushed with pleasure and excitement, while her eyes sparkled with delight. She had gone some little distance before she perceived the person whom she had come to meet. It was her brother, and breaking into a run she was soon at his side.
"O! Phil," she gasped, completely out of breath, "what do you think? Miss Crawford has been to see me."
"You should not run in such hot weather, Millie," said her brother. "You'll be ill again, if you do. Here, sit down a minute on this door-step, and get cool. Who has been, did you say?"
"Miss Crawford. Why, Phil, you can't have forgotten her."
"No, I remember," he answered shortly; and his face grew sorrowful, almost stern, at the recollections the name recalled.
"She said she had been trying to find us everywhere," Millie went on eagerly, "but nobody at Camberwell seemed to know where we had gone. Then one day last week she happened to meet Ned Roberts, and he told her that he thought uncle had moved to Swift Street."
"Yes, more's the pity," muttered Phil. "Didn't she tell you the wretched hole would half kill you?"
"No, of course not. You know she's not the one to make the worst of anything, Phil. She's too good for that. But, indeed, it's not so bad, after all. Why, our street is quite fresh and pleasant compared to Back Court," said Millie, mentioning one of the most wretched of the many thickly-populated alleys near Drury Lane.
"You're like her there; you always make the best of everything. I wish I could, but I can't," said Phil despondently. "Never mind, Millie," he added cheerfully after a moment's pause, "I shall soon be able to earn enough to keep us both. I shall be fourteen, you know, next month. Won't we have a pretty cottage in the country some day, that's all?"
"But we couldn't leave uncle, Phil," said Millie, earnestly.
"Why not? He has done nothing to make us very grateful to him, and he's no such pleasant company either," answered Phil in a rough, harsh tone. "See how he treats me! I did not tell you before, but, Millie—" he lowered his voice as he said it—"he struck me the other night; yes, struck me a blow that sent me reeling half across the room."
"O! Phil, when?" Millie exclaimed anxiously, forgetting Miss Crawford and everything else in the alarm caused by her brother's words. "Where was I? How was it that I didn't know anything about it?"
"You were asleep, dear. You had a headache and had gone to bed, and I took care not to make a noise, for I didn't want to wake you. I only looked at uncle; and, coward that he is, he slunk off to his room without speaking. He had been drinking, of course," said Phil; "but if he should dare to do it again, or touch you, I'll—" He did not finish his sentence, but he drew himself up, and shook back the hair from his forehead with such an expression of hatred and revenge on his face that Millie shuddered.
"Phil, don't look so," she said. "You need not fear that he will ever strike me. He loves me too dearly for that. You know I can do almost anything with him."
"Except make him give up his bad companions and bad habits; and unless you can do that, I don't see of what use your influence is, Millie," returned Phil with a short, bitter laugh. "For my part," he added, "I think it's a mercy poor aunt died when she did. He'd have broken her heart before now."
Millie thought it wiser to say nothing, though she could not suppress the weary sigh that came from the very bottom of her heart, as rising from the door-step she began walking slowly back to the place they now called home. Phil kept pace with her, looking miserable and gloomy. Very soon, however, Millie's face broke into a smile again, and she cheerfully started a new subject of conversation.
"Dinner is all ready for you, Phil. Aren't you hungry?"
"No, it's too hot to be hungry. Besides, who could eat in this vile atmosphere?"
"But I've got a lovely lettuce for you, and vinegar. Vinegar is always so refreshing, I think, in hot weather. Then there's plenty of cheese, and a bit of beef we had over from yesterday. And—But guess what there is besides."
"Is uncle coming home to dinner?" inquired Phil.
Millie thought that he was ungraciously ignoring her request, and replied in rather a hurt voice—
"No, he said he should not be in till night."
Her brother's next words, however, told her that she had wronged him.
"Well, then, there will be you, and to have you all to myself for half an hour will be as good as twenty dinners, Millie."
There was one noble trait in Phil's character, at any rate, his intense love for his sister. It shone out now from his innermost soul, as looking fondly at her, he tucked her hand under his arm.
"No, but do guess what it is," Millie went on eagerly. "It's something so nice—something you will enjoy. Miss Crawford brought it."
"Then it's sure to be something good. Tell me, I'm a bad hand at guessing."
"A dish of cherries. Such beauties! There was a basket full of them, and at the top she had spread some flowers. I thought it was all flowers at first. Isn't she kind, Phil? And O! She said—But there," exclaimed Millie, suddenly interrupting herself, "we'll have dinner now, and I'll tell you what she said presently."
So saying, Millie entered the house in Swift Street in which the brother and sister and their uncle lodged. Their rooms were on the top floor, and the little girl climbed wearily up the long steep staircase. Phil walked behind, taking good care not to hurry her. On every landing there were children playing,—poor, dirty, uncared-for little things who, for the most part, were shoeless and ragged. Some were quarrelling, while some, happier than the rest, were ravenously devouring the slices of bread, thinly spread with jam, that constituted their midday meal. On the second landing, a girl, older than Millie, with a coarse, bold face, called out sneeringly:
"Well, you two stuck-ups! Just arrived from your mornin' walk? Ain't you proud of your uncle? He's such an ornament to the family, that you ought to be."
"You'd better be careful what you say before my sister, Nora Dickson," returned Phil haughtily. "I won't have her insulted by such a girl as you, I can tell you."
Nora answered him with a mocking laugh, but she wisely refrained from further comment, and went on cobbling—it could not be called sewing—the ragged little frock which she held in her hand.
As Millie had said, the dinner did look inviting. Yet it was only owing to the nice arrangement of the dishes, the cleanliness of the cloth, and the polish upon the knives and forks, that it had that appearance, for the food itself was small in quantity, and second-rate in quality. There was an air of neatness and refinement about the room too, which was evidently the result of Millie's care and taste; Millie, the child-woman, who in the twelve years of her short life had seen so many changes, and experienced so many of this world's sorrows and troubles.
"Well," said Phil, cutting up his lettuce and beginning to eat with a relish that told of a good healthy appetite. "Well, what did Miss Crawford say?"
"Why," replied Millie, the glad, happy look coming back again into her eyes, "she said I was to go to her house and have tea with her. She did, Phil. Aren't you glad?"
"Jolly glad, little woman. It will just do you good to have a change, and plenty of something nice to eat for once in the way. When are you going?"
"Not till next week, because Miss Crawford's brother is ill, and she has to nurse him. But he is getting better now, she says, and as soon as ever she is at leisure, she will fix a day for me to go."
"She lives in Kennington Road, doesn't she?" Phil asked.
"Yes, Baverstock House, Kennington Road. I remember it, because I saw aunt direct a letter to her once." Then, with a change in her voice, Millie continued, "Phil, I think that before aunt died she must have asked Miss Crawford to look after me a bit, for she told me this morning that whenever I was in trouble, and wanted a friend, I was always to let her know, and she would help me in any way she could. She was so grieved about uncle too. She said she wished she could find me a more comfortable home than this. But when I told her that I wouldn't leave you nor uncle, she smiled, and said that I was right, and that so long as uncle was willing to have me, it was best for me to stay."
"But it's not good for you to be here. I know that well enough," Phil returned bitterly. "I wish I could take you away; but we shall have to wait for that."
"I shouldn't leave uncle under any circumstances," said Millie earnestly and resolutely. "I promised aunt that, however bad he might be, I would always care for him and attend to him, just as she would have done if she had lived."
"You're a good girl," said Phil, "but flesh and blood can't stand too much. However," he added more cheerfully, "we won't talk about our troubles any more. Get out your cherries. I must be back at one; so I have no time to spare."
Even Phil's gloomy face brightened as Millie took from the cupboard a plate of beautiful "bigaroons." He ate a dozen or so with considerable gusto, then stopped short.
"Why, Millie, you're eating none," he said. "Mind, I shan't have a single cherry more than you, so please make haste. They won't keep this weather, you know."
"But—but uncle would like some," said Millie timidly.
"There it is again," exclaimed Phil angrily, breaking out into one of his sudden outbursts of passion. "It's always uncle, uncle, from morning to night. I'm sick of the sound of the word. I am nobody and nothing, I suppose."
"O Phil, dear Phil, don't," said Millie, laying her head upon his shoulder and bursting into tears. "I do love you. You know I do. I have nobody in the world but you. If I hadn't you, I should just like to lie down and die. Don't say such unkind things."
"There, there," said Phil tenderly, his anger all melting at sight of his sister's tears. "I didn't mean to vex you. Why, Millie," as her sobs increased, "don't be such a baby. You are a woman now, as you said the other day." And he kissed her, and lovingly stroked back the damp curls from her hot forehead.
"Somebody must love uncle, Phil. It's the only thing that will save him. Aunt felt that, I know. And besides, you can't deny that when he's sober, he'll do anything for 'the little lass.'" And Millie smiled bravely, "just to please Phil," as she said to herself.
"Well, I'm off," he said when he saw that her tears had ceased. "Don't expect me home till late to-night. There's a lot of extra work to be done, and I must stay overtime. Good-bye, dear."
He turned to go, but Millie held out a handful of cherries and looked so pleadingly at him, that against his will, he took them. Then, calling out a last good-bye from the door, Phil tramped downstairs, and Millie saw no more of him till dusk.
[CHAPTER II.]
HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON.
POOR Phil and Millie! Their history had been a sad one, as you shall hear.
Until within a year or so of the time when this story opens, they had lived in the pretty seaside village of Chormouth, in the south of Devonshire. Their father, Philip Guntry, was a sailor. He earned good wages as second mate on board a merchant vessel, while their mother employed some of her leisure time in lace-making, a work at which she was particularly skilful. So they were comfortably off, and Millie and Phil, in those days, knew nothing of want and privation.
Sometimes, when Millie sat alone in their small close lodgings in Swift Street, she would shut her eyes and conjure up before her the village street and the pretty little cottage that had been her home for so many happy years. Very wistfully she thought of the little room which, with its dainty bed and spotless hangings of white muslin, she had once called her own; of the lovely view from its window; of the creeping rose bush, whose clusters of white blossoms had awakened her on many a sunshiny morning by gently tapping on her window pane; of the comfortable, homely kitchen, and of the parlour where they sat on Sundays, or entertained visitors who, having dropped in for a chat, were prevailed upon to stay and take a cup of tea.
So time had passed happily and prosperously with the Guntrys until Millie was nearly ten years old. Then a terrible trouble shadowed the brightness of their home; and, alas! other griefs came rapidly upon the footsteps of the first.
Philip Guntry, who had been absent on a long voyage, was daily expected at Chormouth. Anxious eyes scanned the shipping intelligence for news of the "Cynthia," and his wife spent many weary nights in listening to the blustering wind, and the distant swell of the ocean. The gales of that autumn were unusually severe, and wrecks and disasters were of such frequent occurrence that Mrs. Guntry's heart might well sicken with fear as days and weeks passed by and brought no news of her husband's arrival in England.
At last, one morning, she read in a newspaper that a broken piece of timber, bearing the name of the "Cynthia," had been picked up at sea, from which fact it was concluded that the vessel in question had been wrecked during the fearful gales of the past weeks, and that all hands on board had perished.
It was indeed a trial to the poor wife. Her worst forebodings were realised, and in the first agony of her grief, her spirits sank beneath the blow. But she was a brave little woman, and knowing that it now devolved upon her to support herself and her children, she put all selfish indulgence of her sorrow aside, and with willing hands, though with a heavy heart, set herself resolutely to her lace-making, which, once a mere pastime for leisure moments, had now to become a necessary and serious occupation for the whole of the day. Even then she found it a difficult matter to make both ends meet. True, there was a little fund of money in the Savings Bank. It had been placed there against a rainy day, but though the rainy day had now come, she felt that there might be a stormier one in the future, and would not touch it.
By dint, however, of working early and late, and living very frugally, she was able to live on in the old home—it would have broken her heart to leave it—and send the children regularly to school, where Phil was doing wonders, and was already looked upon as a genius.
With constant occupation, and in the peace of mind that her cheerful resignation to God's will brought with it, there presently sprang up within her a belief, which, though weak at first, grew stronger as time went on. It was a belief that her husband still lived, and that he would eventually return to her. She told her little daughter of her new-born hope, for Millie was thoughtful and gentle beyond her years, and her mother and she were very closely bound together in sympathy and love.
"Millie," she would say to her, when in the long winter evenings Phil was away at his drawing class, and mother and daughter sat alone by the fireside, "Millie, I can't understand why I feel so sure that your father will come back to us some day. It seems impossible, I know, but I can't get rid of an inward conviction that he is not dead. Yet perhaps it is only because my hope of seeing him again is so great that it seems as if it must be realised."
But her hope was never realised on earth. Within a year of the wreck of the "Cynthia" smallpox broke out in the village. The dreadful disease spread rapidly, and Mrs. Guntry was one of the first to sicken. An empty cottage on the outskirts of the village had been hastily prepared as a hospital for the sufferers. To this she was taken, and here, in a week or two, she died.
Everybody pitied, and did what they could for the poor children who were now left alone in the world. The vicar wrote to an aunt in London, their mother's sister, who was almost the only relative they had, asking her if she could do anything for the orphans.
In a few days an answer came from Mrs. Hunt. It brought good news for Phil and Millie. She would gladly give her nephew and niece a home, she said, and she would herself come to Chormouth and take them back with her to London.
The children loved their aunt directly they saw her. Her manners were so kind and gentle, and her soft voice and sweet pale face reminded them so much of their dear mother, that their lonely sorrowful hearts were greatly comforted, and they felt at home with her at once. As she bent over Millie on the night of her arrival to give her a last kiss in bed, the child smiled her first smile since that dreadful day when her mother had been carried off to the cottage hospital.
Mrs. Hunt remained a few days at Chormouth, arranging the sale of the furniture in the Guntrys' cottage, and settling a few business affairs on behalf of the children. The money in the Savings Bank had been nearly all spent in defraying the expenses of Mrs. Guntry's illness and funeral: the few pounds that remained, Mrs. Hunt resolved should pay for the children's further education, for she was by no means well off, and it was almost more than she could do to give them a home. Then, when all was finished, she went back to London, accompanied by Phil and Millie.
They were as happy with their aunt Hunt as they would have been anywhere, perhaps, but they had not been long in the house before they understood the cause of their aunt's anxious face, and the weary vigils that she kept at night as she sat listening for her husband's tardy footsteps; for, alas! Richard Hunt had one great failing, that of indulging in habits of intemperance. It was a constant grief to his wife. He was an artisan—a painter—and they might have lived very pleasantly and comfortably had it not been for his unfortunate love of drink.
From the first hour of their meeting Phil and his uncle never got on well together. There was something strangely antagonistic between them. Phil was reserved, cold, almost sullen towards his uncle, who never took the trouble to overcome his nephew's dislike, or interest himself in Phil's pursuits. With Millie it was different; he took a great fancy to her. Perhaps she reminded him of his tiny fair-haired child, whose short life of three years had ended in so sudden and painful a manner.
It happened that "Baby," as they still called her, was left alone in the kitchen, and thinking, poor little one! what a bright pretty plaything the fire would make, she began pulling out the blazing sticks. One of these must have fallen upon her print pinafore, and instantly the child was in flames. Her screams alarmed her mother, who came flying to the spot. Seizing the child, she enveloped her in a thick shawl, and so extinguished the fire, but not before the tender limbs had been most fearfully burned. Three days after that fatal morning, "Baby" died, and so intense had been her agony that the mother at last prayed that death might come to put an end to her darling's sufferings. Poor mother! She felt that to her dying day she could never forgive herself for having left her child alone on the disastrous morning of the accident. No second bairn ever came to take "Baby's" empty place.
Two years after that sad event, Mrs. Gantry died, and her sister at once asked her husband's permission to bring the two orphaned children to share their home. He objected strongly at first, remarking, very justly, that what would keep two persons in tolerable comfort was a short allowance for four. But Mrs. Hunt cheerfully talked away all difficulties, and at last her wish was gratified.
In Millie's sweet companionship and loving care they felt repaid for what they had done. She settled down at once, taking upon herself certain of the household duties—"the little lass" being her uncle's pet name for her.
Phil was by no means so happy. He went with his sister to school for the first few weeks after their arrival in London, but feeling sure that his uncle considered him a lazy fellow, who preferred idling his time over his books to any more profitable employment, he begged to be allowed to seek a situation. He soon obtained one, but was miserable in it. He was always longing for time to study and draw, and every spare moment was occupied with a book or pencil. He hated London, too, and London life. He felt "suffocated and smoke-dried," he said, and he longed intensely for the freedom and fresh air of the country.
Then came another heavy loss for the children; one that made their lives desolate indeed. The following winter was unusually severe; and Mrs. Hunt, who was naturally delicate, caught a heavy cold, which turned to bronchitis, and in the end proved fatal. As she lay on what she felt would be her death-bed, her mind was troubled with many perplexities and anxieties respecting her husband and the children she had adopted. She feared that her husband would go from bad to worse; for he was weak-minded and easily led astray, and her influence had been the one thing that had kept him from bringing complete disgrace and ruin upon himself and home. What then would be Phil and Millie's fate? Certainly Phil was well educated for his age and position in life; consequently he would always be able to get a situation of some kind; but he was still very young, and both he and his sister needed wise guardianship and kind care. But after all she could only leave it in God's hands. The one thing that she could do, she did, which was to beg Miss Crawford to take an interest in the orphans, and be their friend and counsellor in any special difficulty.
Miss Crawford had known Mrs. Hunt ever since her child's death, when she had been requested by the vicar of the parish to call on the poor mother and comfort her in her sorrow. Very gladly she had consented; for though she was young, she had that love for her fellow-creatures which springs only from a deeper love for their Creator. Many a wretched London home had been brightened by her gentle presence, and many were the sad hearts that her words of sympathy had cheered.
Miss Crawford generally saw Millie when she called on Mrs. Hunt, and she liked the little girl for her own sake. Of Phil she knew very little, but she promised the dying woman that neither should want a friend while she was living. So their aunt was comforted and her mind set at rest.
"I am quite happy," she said feebly, to the weeping friends who were gathered around her dying bed. "Love each other, and live for each other, my darlings. Good-bye, my husband; meet me in heaven. I shall watch for you there."
For awhile after her death all went quietly. Each mourned the dear one who had been removed, and her dying words rang in her husband's ear. Before many months had past, however, several of his old habits were resumed; he renewed his acquaintance with some of his most disreputable "chums," and would come reeling home at uncertain hours of the night, much the worse for drink. Well might Millie's face grow pale, and her eyes heavy, as her daily burden of care grew heavier and heavier. Her only ray of comfort was that Miss Crawford was her true friend, and often came to see her.
In the beginning of June, Phil and Millie were surprised to hear from their uncle that he had decided to leave Camberwell and live in Swift Street, Drury Lane. Great was the horror of the children when they found themselves in such a close, dirty neighbourhood. It was indeed different from beautiful Chormouth with its sunny bay, its big red cliffs, its green downs, pretty cottages and neat gardens.
It was little wonder they thought yearningly of their old home, and sorrowfully compared it with their present. But it was harder for Phil than for Millie. She knew the love of God—knowledge which will make the saddest life happy. When weary or lonely, she would get her Bible, and ponder over the comforting words it contains, till her heart was cheerful and light again: "Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass," she would say softly to herself. She believed implicitly that there was a better time coming, and lived in the present but to cheer her brother and endeavour to win back her uncle to a better life.
It would have been well for Phil if he too had possessed Millie's Christian spirit; but his troubles, instead of softening, had hardened his heart. If he thought of God at all, it was as One who takes pleasure in punishing and chastising His children, and not as a loving Father "Who delighteth in mercy."
[CHAPTER III.]
WATERLOO BRIDGE BY MOONLIGHT.
IT was about a fortnight after the conversation recorded in the first chapter, when Phil, coming in from work somewhat earlier than usual, asked Millie to go out for a walk with him. It had been a hot, close day, and at the mere thought of a cool stroll with her brother she jumped up with alacrity.
"You don't mind being left alone, uncle?" she asked of that individual, who sat by the open window smoking a short pipe.
"No, no," he said, "I'm glad for you to go." Then looking at her rather anxiously, he added, "You haven't looked so well lately. There, take this penny and go on the bridge. The breeze from the river will freshen you a bit."
Waterloo Bridge is a free thoroughfare now, but at the time of this story there was a toll of one halfpenny upon every passenger who crossed it.
"Thank you, uncle," said Millie gratefully.
He had come home sober that evening—a rare occurrence—and was showing an unusual amount of interest in domestic matters.
"We won't stay out very late."
"The longer the better, child. I shan't want you. Just put the bread and cheese on the table, though, before you go. There will be nothing to make you hurry back then," he said kindly.
Phil fidgeted about till this was done. Then he and Millie started off. Down Drury Lane and out into the Strand they passed; crossed the road into Wellington Street, and so arrived on Waterloo Bridge, where they sauntered to and fro awhile; then Millie said:
"Let us sit down in one of these recesses, Phil. It is pleasanter than walking about, and the wind is so cool and refreshing."
"The moon will be up presently, Millie. You will like that."
"Yes, indeed, I shall. I remember how beautiful it was on moonlight nights at Chormouth. There was a broad pathway of silvery waves right across the sea as far as the eye could reach. I used to think how nice it would be to row in a little boat right up the glittering road of light; for it was so lovely that I fancied it must surely lead to heaven. Phil," Millie continued solemnly, "do you know that I saw it again last night in a dream?"
Her brother thought that she was going to tell him what she had dreamed about, but Millie was silent, with a far-away look in her eyes, as she gazed up into the sky. Presently she gave a little sigh, and, rousing herself, said:
"Is the river pretty by moonlight, Phil?"
"Of course it's nothing like the sea," he replied; "but you will be able to judge for yourself in a few minutes. Are you cold, Millie? Here, let me draw your scarf close round your throat, and wind the end again—so." He was always careful of Millie.
"Thank you," she said, "but I am not cold. Phil," she added after a pause, "don't you think it's strange that Miss Crawford has not been since that day when she brought the cherries?"
"Perhaps her brother is worse. When was it she came?"
"A fortnight ago yesterday. Perhaps if she doesn't come soon, she will write. I wish when I go to her house to tea you could come too, Phil dear."
"No, thank you, Millie, I'd rather not. I like you to go, but I should feel uncomfortable in a grand house like hers."
"Would you?" said Millie slowly. "I never thought of that before. Perhaps I had better not go then."
"That's nonsense; you and I are so different, Millie. Besides, I can't quite tolerate being patronised yet," he said bitterly.
Millie looked puzzled. "What does that mean?" she asked with knitted brows.
"O never mind," he replied, with a little laugh. "If you don't know, it's just as well that you shouldn't be told. 'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' O Millie," he burst out suddenly, after a pause, "I wish I were dead."
"My darling," she said lovingly, as she nestled closer to him and put her hand in his, "don't say that, for my sake. O how I wish I could make you happier! I wish you felt as I do—that God will send us better times if we are only patient, and will trust Him. Don't you remember what mother used to say about there being a silver lining to every cloud? I am sure there is a silver lining to our cloud, if we would only see it."
"No, Millie, there is not," he answered in a despondent voice. "Everything is against us. We are being dragged down lower and lower. I ought to be doing something better than putting up parcels of grocery, and carrying them to people's houses, and you ought to be going to school."
"But perhaps when the master of the shop sees how clever you are," said Millie, ignoring that part of Phil's speech that referred to herself, "perhaps he'll let you serve behind the counter, or some day, Phil, you might keep the books; just think of that!"
Millie had a profound belief in her brother's abilities to do anything and everything; for hadn't he been the very first boy in the school at Chormouth, and didn't their mother say that her son seemed to have such a liking for books that she would try to make a schoolmaster of him?
"Anyhow, Millie," Phil said, with an effort to be cheerful, "I will earn enough money for us both some day. But there, I say that so often, that you must be tired of hearing it. Look away yonder. Do you see the moon coming up over the chimneys there?"
Millie looked in the direction to which he pointed.
"It is very beautiful, Phil, even here," she said softly. "What is that high straight tower called?"
"That is the Shot Tower, where shot is made." Then he explained the process to her—how melted lead is poured through a colander at the top of the tower and made to drop into a vessel of water at the bottom, in perfect little spherical forms—"like the drops of rain, you know, Millie."
Then he pointed out the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey; bade her listen to the half-hour as it struck from Big Ben, and told her what he knew of the history of the many large buildings in the neighbourhood of Waterloo Bridge. Had Cleopatra's Needle been there then, he might have made his sister's eyes grow big with wonder at the marvellous stories that could be related of that, but the famous obelisk was at that time in its old place at Alexandria.
And now the moon, the full moon, had risen over the mighty city of London. Near objects were bathed in its bright, pure light, while far-away in the distance the scene was lost to view in a soft haziness. It was a grand sight. Millie was amazed and awe-struck. Silently she gazed around her, then, kneeling on her seat, leant her head over the parapet, and looked down on the river beneath. Phil noticed that she shivered.
"You are cold, Millie," he said gently. "Hadn't we better go back now?"
"No, not just yet," she replied. "It is only because the water looks so dark and gloomy in the shadow that I shiver. It looks hungry, too, as if it longed to open its mouth and swallow one up. Ah! Phil, I like the sea best. Listen now. I will tell you what I dreamed last night; then if you like we will go home." Millie paused a moment, then began:
"I thought that you and I were living alone at Chormouth, in our old cottage, and on just such a lovely moonlight night as this we went walking on the cliffs together. The tide was out, and across the water, as far as ever we could see, stretched the silvery pathway that you know I used to think must lead to heaven. I thought so then, and I asked you to come with me and join mother there; for though we were very happy, we were often very lonely, and we longed to have her with us. You would not listen to me at first, but presently you said 'Yes.' So taking your hand, I ran with you across the sands, and without the least fear into the tiny rippling waves of the turning tide. But no sooner had our feet touched the water than a shadow seemed to bar the way. We looked up, and there was father standing with his arms stretched out to us.
"'Father,' I cried, 'I am so glad to see you. You are come just in time to go with us to mother.'
"I wasn't one bit surprised to see him, you know, although I knew quite well that he had been wrecked. Well, he stood still with his arms spread out and did not move. Then in a minute or two, he cried with the tears running down his cheeks:
"'Children, I can't go; I don't know the way. Come back with me and teach me, and then, when I have learnt, we three will go together!'
"At that I sprang into his arms, and kissed him, and said I would wait till he too was ready, and I held out my hand to you again, Phil, but you—" Millie's voice dropped to a whisper—"but you were gone. I could not see you anywhere; you were not in the shadow, nor in the moonlight. Then I called out loud for you, and I suppose that woke me; for the next minute I heard you say:
"'All right, Millie, I'm awake.'
"And then I knew that I had been dreaming."
"That was a strange dream," said Phil musingly. "It was striking six, I remember, when I heard you calling me just as you always do, this morning, so that you see was caused by the force of habit. But the first part of your dream was ghostly, Millie. We won't talk about it any more. Let us go home."
"It was not ghostly to me; it was a very beautiful dream, and I was only sorry when I woke," said Millie, rising. "Somehow it makes me believe just as mother did, that father is living, and will come back to us some day, as," she added, reverently folding her hands, "I pray God he may."
Well might Phil wish that he had his sister's hopeful, trusting spirit. He sighed as he watched her; then with a "Come, Millie," he hooked his arm in hers, and they turned towards home.
They had not gone many steps before they were met by a lady and gentleman. The former looked hard at Millie, then stopped, exclaiming:
"Why, Millie, is that you?"
Millie's joyous "O Miss Crawford" was answer enough.
"I suppose Phil brought you to get a little fresh air," she said with a smile. "I am glad of that, it will do you good."
Without speaking, Phil doffed his cap, and stood awkwardly by, while Millie eagerly answered Miss Crawford's questions.
"Will you come to tea with me on Monday afternoon?" said that young lady to Millie. "I shall expect you at four o'clock, and you and I will take tea together on the lawn. You will like that, Millie?"
The child's eyes sparkled.
"Could you not manage to call for your sister about eight," continued Miss Crawford turning to Phil, "and see her safely home?"
He mumbled a reply which Miss Crawford chose to consider an assent. Phil was always shy with strangers, and especially so when they were ladies.
Then she wished the brother and sister good-bye, and as she walked away Phil heard her say to her companion, "That little girl shall be among our first batch, Sydney."
"I wonder what she means," thought Phil to himself. But he said nothing to Millie, who trotted along chatting merrily till they reached their home in Swift Street.
She received her guest with a kind word of welcome.
[CHAPTER IV.]
MILLIE GOES OUT TO TEA.
THE following Monday was indeed a red-letter day in Millie Guntry's calendar. She put on her best dress, which, in spite of the care she had taken, was beginning to look shabby, and the pretty lace collar and cuffs that her mother had made for her. Nora Dickson called out when she met Millie on the stairs that she looked "quite a lady." Nora said it satirically; but it was the truth nevertheless.
Millie had some little difficulty in finding Baverstock House, and it was with a trembling hand—for she felt extremely nervous—that she pulled the bell at the side of the high green gate.
But when the gate was opened, she thought at first she was in fairyland! Who would have expected to see so green a spot in such a crowded, noisy neighbourhood? The house was a large old-fashioned building, with ivy and many kinds of creepers climbing up its walls, and around the pillars of the doorway. In the front of the house stretched a velvety lawn, and the high wall that surrounded it was thickly covered with more ivy and creepers. In the centre of the garden a pretty fountain threw up its silvery spray in the sunshine. It made Millie feel cool even to look at it. In one corner of the lawn there grew a large mulberry tree, and there, under its shade, sat Miss Crawford in a low basket-chair at needlework. She received her guest with a kind word of welcome, and soon the little girl was seated by her friend and chatting away at her ease.
Presently tea was brought out. Millie had not felt so hungry for months as she did at the sight of the delicate bread and butter, delicious strawberries, and rich light sponge cake.
"O!" sighed Millie to herself. "If Phil were but here!"
Miss Crawford was delighted at the child's evident pleasure. "Now, Millie, you are to make a good tea," she said, as she noticed that Millie ate her second slice of bread and butter with considerably less relish than the first.
"Thank you," Millie replied, smiling gratefully; "but I haven't been very hungry lately. I think the hot weather has taken away my appetite."
"Are you perfectly well, dear child?" Miss Crawford asked anxiously, as she looked at Millie's pale face.
"I have bad headaches sometimes," she answered, "and I get tired so soon. But that is nothing; I am quite well, thank you."
"Tell me truthfully, Millie, do you always have enough to eat?"
Millie blushed and stammered, "I—I—Indeed, I don't think I could eat more if I had it: only uncle gives me so little money now, and Phil works so hard that, you know, he must have plenty of food to keep up his strength. Phil's wages will be raised soon, and then we shall get on better," she added cheerfully.
"Your uncle gives you a certain sum weekly, I suppose?" Miss Crawford asked.
"He does not give it me regularly—I wish he would," replied Millie. "And it's sometimes more, and sometimes less. I buy the food and the things that we use in the house, and he pays for the rooms—I mean—" She stopped in confusion as she remembered that only that very morning their landlady had told her that they owed nearly a month's rent, and if the money were not soon forthcoming they must leave. Poor Millie! As she thought of it all, the wearied look came back into her face.
"Never mind, my child," said Miss Crawford, "we won't talk about disagreeable subjects now. I have a plan in my head to bring back the roses into your cheeks again. But as I may not be able to carry it out after all, I shall not tell you what it is; I don't want to disappoint you."
"I can't leave uncle and Phil," said Millie, dreading she knew not what.
Miss Crawford smiled and changed the conversation.
"How is Phil getting on with his work?" she asked.
Phil was an inexhaustible subject to his sister, for she never tired of talking of what he did, and what he knew. She now told Miss Crawford, as a great secret, how much Phil wished to continue the drawing lessons that he had begun at an evening class in Camberwell the previous winter, and how clever he already was with his pencil.
"Why, Miss Crawford," said Millie, in a voice of profound admiration, "he actually drew me a lovely little picture of Chormouth Bay, with old John Linton the fisherman coming home with his boat full of mackerel. And all from memory!"
"You must show it me, Millie, some day. Now, if you have quite finished your tea, I will have the table cleared."
But they sat on in the pleasant garden till all the sunbeams had left it, then Miss Crawford took Millie indoors.
If the garden had appeared lovely to the child, the house seemed still more beautiful. Once at Chormouth she recollected that she had been taken over "The Hall" by her mother, and on two or three occasions she had been in the library at Chormouth Vicarage. But here it was not grand and stately like "The Hall," nor small and cheerless like the Vicarage. The rooms in Miss Crawford's house were neither too large nor too small; the carpets were soft to the eye and soft to the touch—Millie could hardly hear her own footsteps as she walked. The furniture was substantial and comfortable; the pictures bright and cheerful—ah! Wouldn't Phil have liked to see those pictures! And flowers and ferns in rich profusion were standing in every available spot, shedding their gracefulness and sweet perfume upon all.
"O! Miss Crawford," said Millie, drawing a long breath of admiration, "what a lovely house you have!"
"I am glad you think so," Miss Crawford said smiling. "Now," she said, leading the way into the prettiest room of all, "this is my drawing-room. Sit down in that low chair in the corner there, Millie, and I will play and sing to you. My father and mother are away with my brother in the country, so that we shall not be disturbing anybody."
So saying, she opened the piano, and sang in such a rich sweet voice that Millie started with surprise and pleasure. So distinctly too were the words pronounced that every syllable was heard. The first songs were light and cheerful. These were succeeded by those grand but touching lines:—
"Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
"O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
"And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
"Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me."
The music and the words went straight to the little listener's heart. They took her in spirit to Chormouth—to the little cottage there, and to its beloved inmates. In spite of her efforts to prevent them the tears would come. She could just manage to keep from sobbing aloud, and that was all.
At the end of the song Miss Crawford paused. In a few minutes, however, she began again with that beautiful air from Mendelssohn's oratorio of "Elijah," "O rest in the Lord."
"'O rest in the Lord,'" repeated Millie softly to herself, "'wait patiently for Him.' Yes, yes, I will."
Then came the blessed promise, "'And He shall give thee thy heart's desire.'"
There was no bitterness nor heartache in her tears after that. She had but to wait, and her heart's desire would be granted, her heart's desire for Phil—for her uncle, and for herself that she might become more unselfish, more patient, more content, more like the Lord Jesus, Whose little child she was. Millie, as she heard the sweet comforting words, bowed her head and turned them into a prayer.
A slight noise made her look up. A tall gentleman came quietly into the room. He did not observe Millie in her dark corner; he walked straight to the piano and stood behind the player till the last sounds of the music had died away. In the silence that followed—for Miss Crawford's voice had grown husky, and she paused to let it regain its accustomed tone—he bent down and kissed her, saying as he did so:
"Thank you, that does bring rest indeed!"
"Is that you, Sydney?" Miss Crawford exclaimed, as she rose quickly from her seat. "I did not expect you just yet. Ah! You are tired—very tired, are you not?" she asked, looking closely at him in the dusk.
"Rather. I have had hard work at the hospital to-day," he replied. "Several poor fellows who had been wounded in a machinery accident were brought in. Two have died. We have hopes that the others will do well."
"How dreadful!" said Miss Crawford. "I do not wonder that you are tired and worn out. There, sit down," she continued, as she wheeled towards him a comfortable arm-chair, "and rest yourself. For the present I must attend to another visitor. Millie, come here and speak to this gentleman."
Millie came from her corner, feeling glad that the twilight hid her tear-stained face. Now that she was nearer to him, she thought she recognised the gentleman, and then she remembered she had seen him with Miss Crawford on Waterloo Bridge.
To Millie's surprise, he asked her a great many questions—odd questions she thought them. Where did she live? Had they a good supply of fresh water for their use? How large was the room in which she slept? Did she keep her window open night and day? He shook his head and looked very grave when he heard that her bedroom was little more than a cupboard, and that the window was so tiny as scarcely to admit any light at all.
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who came to say that Philip Guntry had called for his sister.
"Then I suppose I must let you go, Millie," said Miss Crawford. "Say good-bye to Dr. Bethune."
They found Phil in the study. He stood twirling his cap and looking as if he longed to be out of the house. Miss Crawford tried hard to put him at his ease, and so well did she succeed, that in a few minutes he was keeping Millie company in eating a slice of cake, while he talked eagerly and sensibly on a subject which was very dear to him—drawing. His eyes glistened with pleasure when Miss Crawford told him of a School of Art that he should attend when the autumn term began. Millie was glad that her dear Miss Crawford should see her brother for once as she so often saw him—with the heavy sullen look gone, and an intelligent animated expression in its place; with a ready smile playing around his lips, and with his black locks tossed back from his forehead.
How Phil enjoyed that conversation! He was no longer anxious to get out of the house; indeed, he quite forgot where he was, and how time went. For the first time for many a long day he felt that somebody besides Millie was taking a pleasure in seeing him happy; was treating him as a rational, intelligent being, who had tastes to be cultivated, and abilities to be used. When his second piece of cake had disappeared, Miss Crawford went to a bookcase and took two books from its shelves. She handed one to Millie; the other she gave to Phil, saying:
"I want you to keep this in memory of our pleasant chat. It is one of my favourites. I am sure you will like to read it. No, don't thank me," she added hastily, as Phil uttered a delighted "O Miss Crawford!"
"And don't open it till you get home."
She went with them herself to the hall-door, tripped lightly across the lawn, gave Phil a warm shake of the hand, pressed a kiss upon Millie's forehead, opened the gate, and as they passed out, her last words rang in their ears, "Good-bye, I shall see you again soon. Remember I am always your friend."
Well may your heart be blithe and happy, dear Minnie Crawford, and well may you feel blessed in your home and the world. For in giving largely of your cheering sympathy, in ministering to the wants of the sick and the poor, in scattering a sunbeam here and a gladness there, you are giving forth the good measure that is returned unto your own heart, "pressed down, and shaken together, and running over."
Phil walked away from Baverstock House that evening feeling that the world had suddenly changed to him. He had a sympathising friend at last. He could have fallen down and kissed the feet of her who had spoken so winningly and kindly to him. He had not been so light-hearted since the old days at Chormouth.
In spite of Miss Crawford's injunction the brother and sister halted under the first lamp-post to take a peep at their books. Phil was all impatience to know what his was about, though had it not been that his spirit was infectious, it would have been enough for Millie to feast her eyes on the pretty blue cover of hers. Phil uttered a long "O!" of joyful anticipation as he saw the title, "The Early Lives of Great Painters," and Millie read aloud the golden letters on the cover of her book, "Ministering Children."
"'Ministering Children'! What are ministering children, Phil?" she asked wonderingly.
"Why," he replied, looking fondly at her, "they are children like you, Millie."
[CHAPTER V.]
MISS CRAWFORD'S PROPOSAL.
PHIL went about his work in much better spirits after his visit to Miss Crawford. It seemed strange to him now that he had once felt so ungracious and unfriendly towards her. He did not know her then; that was it. He had thought she was a fine lady who patronised her poorer neighbours, and Phil's English heart revolted against the idea. When he saw that she met him on the equal ground of their common humanity, talked to him of his great longing to become an artist, sympathised with him that he could not continue his education, and devised plans for his self-improvement, then Phil's gratitude and affection flowed out to her like a river, and next to Millie she had the warmest place in his heart. Millie he could love, and pet, and caress, but she was as simple as a baby, and sadly ignorant of many things that he had at his tongue's end. Now in Miss Crawford, he had found a friend older and wiser than himself, one who would direct him, and tell him how best to get the help he needed to carry on the studies which, notwithstanding the difficulties attending the resolution, he determined should still be pursued.
In his new-found happiness even Phil's temper improved. He was more respectful to his uncle; and, one evening after supper, actually volunteered to read aloud to him from his new book. Richard Hunt was but little interested, however, and was soon snoring an accompaniment to his nephew's not unmusical voice. Nevertheless his attempts to conquer the sullen indifference with which he had invariably treated his uncle, who certainly did little to merit the boy's respect, met with their own reward. Phil was happier, as we all are for trying to do right, and Millie's face grew daily more and more cheerful.
"If uncle would but be always sober and give me enough money to keep house with properly, how happy we should be!" she thought.
She had heard no more from their landlady respecting their arrears of rent, but she noticed that her uncle's watch was missing, and rightly guessed that it had been pawned to meet the debt.
August was not yet over, when one day Phil, coming in to dinner, found Miss Crawford and Millie together.
"Ah! Phil," said Miss Crawford, holding out her hand—which he was proud enough to take, though he wished his own had been cleaner to meet it—"you are the very boy I was wishing to see. Here is your sister quite unmanageable this morning. No, Millie, you be quiet," she added, as Millie opened her mouth to utter an emphatic denial of the charge that was brought against her. "I will tell your brother, and you will see that his opinion entirely agrees with mine;" and she nodded her head merrily.
"Now listen, Phil. These are the facts of the case. Dr. Bethune, a friend of mine, whom Millie knows, has bought a lovely cottage at Bournemouth for the express purpose of accommodating any little sick folks that may happen to need a change of air. An old woman—and a very kind one she is, too—has been put in this cottage to nurse those children who are weakly enough to require nursing, and to see that all are happy and well cared for. Now, Dr. Bethune is going to send off three of his little patients who have been ill, but there is room for a fourth visitor, and he and I both wish Millie to make that fourth. But I cannot get her even to listen to me. She says such a thing is simply impossible; and when I argue the point, she overwhelms me with solemn assertions that you and your uncle would starve to death in her absence, turn the house out of window, and commit all kinds of absurdities. Now, just tell her that she is a conceited little woman, and that you can keep house almost as well as she can."
"Yes, indeed, you ought to go," said Phil heartily. "You know you have been ailing ever since aunt died. The sea air will set you up splendidly for next winter. I think, Miss Crawford," he continued, turning to her, and lowering his voice, "Millie is afraid that uncle and I shall quarrel, but I promise I will do my very best to keep the peace."
But Millie still hesitated.
"Do go, there's a darling," Phil said coaxingly. "'Tisn't like stopping away for ever, you know."
"Well, she need not decide now," said Miss Crawford; "and, indeed, nothing can be arranged till we know what your uncle says about it. You had better talk it over when you are all three together, and then, Phil, you must come over to my house and tell me what you have decided to do."
Phil readily promised he would do so.
"Isn't she a darling?" cried Millie enthusiastically, when Miss Crawford had gone.
"She is more than that," replied Phil slowly, "she is an—an angel."
He had tried to find a comparison that was less common, but he could think of none other that was so appropriate.
Phil did all in his power to persuade Millie to go to Bournemouth, but she was most unwilling to consent. She shook her head in reply to all his arguments, and said that she could promise nothing till she had spoken to her uncle, for whose return they waited long that night.
It was past midnight when at last he came. Then his unsteady footsteps and thick hoarse voice told the children only too plainly that he was the worse for drink. He went straight to his own room, and threw himself upon his bed. Millie was relieved that he had done so. She could not bear to see the wretched degraded object that he so frequently made himself.
"There," said Phil, as they heard his footsteps pass the door of their living-room, "we must put off speaking to him till to-morrow. Go to bed now, dear. For my part I shall sleep here."
With which he placed a couple of chairs side by side, and threw himself upon them. It was a hard bed, but he preferred it to sharing his uncle's room.
It was not until two days after that Phil trudged joyfully off to Baverstock House to tell Miss Crawford their uncle had given his consent to her kind proposal, and that Millie had at last been persuaded to go to the seaside.
Miss Crawford was at home, and delighted to hear that she should now be able to give her little protégée the benefit of a change of air.
She told Phil she intended to take the children herself to Bournemouth, and see them comfortably established in the cottage. Then she went on to say that Dr. Bethune had long wished to carry out this idea of sending his little convalescent patients to the country, but want of means had hitherto prevented it. It was owing to the fact that a sum of money—a thank-offering for recovery from a dangerous illness—had been placed at his disposal that he was at length enabled to put his scheme into execution.
As Miss Crawford talked to him, Phil remembered her remark to the gentleman who had been her companion on Waterloo Bridge. Her words had puzzled him at the time: he understood them now.
"Do you think you could bring Millie's box and meet us at Waterloo Station on Thursday?" Miss Crawford asked him presently.
"I will try," replied Phil. "At what time ought I to be there?"
"The train leaves at one o'clock, but you had better be at the station by half-past twelve. Is that an inconvenient hour for you?"
"I think I can manage it," said Phil. "We are not busy at the shop in the middle of the day. I dare say they'll give me extra time if I stay later at night to make up for it."
"Very well, then, I shall consider it settled. Stay, here is a shilling to pay for the cab."
"The box won't be heavy. I can carry it, thank you," said Phil, drawing back.
Miss Crawford saw that he preferred to be independent, and did not press the matter.
"Now, Phil," she said, as he rose to leave, "I have a parcel for you to take home. It is a present for Millie."
The boy crimsoned to the very roots of his hair.
"You are very kind, Miss Crawford," he stammered, "but uncle gave Millie some money last night to get some things for herself. I—I think she has everything, thank you. You have been—you are—" In his pride and his confusion Phil broke down.
"Phil," said Miss Crawford, laying her soft white hand on his shoulder, "I understand you, and I admire your independent spirit. But don't you know that we are put into the world to bear one another's burdens, and to help each other? But how can I help you, if you won't let me? If I were poor, and you were rich, would you not give to me?"
Would he not? She read the answer in the shining depths of his earnest, loving eyes.
"And, Phil," she continued in a minute or two, "you will be dull without Millie. Here is an old drawing-box of my own that I should like to give you. It may amuse you in your spare time."
She broke off his thanks, and he went home—heavy-handed, but light-hearted.
Great was Millie's gratitude for the contents of that parcel. The little serge dress, broad-brimmed hat, and thick pair of boots were most acceptable—more acceptable even than Miss Crawford believed they would be. Her uncle had certainly given her a small sum, but it had been barely sufficient to pay for the pair of stockings and the dress that were absolute necessities. The only pair of boots that she possessed were so old that she feared that she must ask Phil, or her uncle, to get her some new ones. Yet she could not bear the idea of doing so; for, as it was, Phil gave up every penny that he earned, and had she gone to her uncle she knew that the only way in which he could have supplied her need would be to pawn another of their few remaining pieces of furniture. So to Millie Miss Crawford's present brought great relief and joy, and she received it with no feeling save that of loving gratitude.
On the appointed day, Phil, having obtained permission to extend his dinner hour, reached home in a great hurry, to find Millie ready and waiting for him. She had had her dinner, but she was so excited at the prospect of the journey, and so anxious for the welfare of those whom she would leave behind, that eating was a difficult matter. Phil took a mouthful as he stood, put some bread and cheese into his pocket, and shouldered his sister's box.
Millie had made many friends in the short time that she had lived in Swift Street. Now they all gathered round her to wish her a pleasant journey, and to say good-bye. Even the rough rude Nora Dickson said with something very like a sob in her voice:
"Good-bye, Millie. I'm real sorry to lose you, that I am."
"It won't be for long," called out Millie cheerfully. "I'm glad to go, of course, for some things, but I'd sooner stay here, after all."
Phil thought that he never should get her away, but at last the good-byes were all said and Millie was trotting along by his side. It was an intensely hot day: the sun beat down upon them with an ardour that was almost unbearable; the pavement seemed to scorch their feet. There was not a breath of air stirring; not a breeze from the river even lightened the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. Phil sighed for the different scene that would soon gladden his sister's eyes.
"Bring me home some seaweed, darling," he said; "I'll bury my nose in it, and 'twill seem like a whiff from old Father Neptune himself."
"I wish you were coming too, Phil," she said wistfully.
"Nonsense," he replied, forcing himself to speak lightly. "You'll have plenty of company without me, I'll be bound. I dare say Miss Crawford will stay with you a good part of the time. O! Millie," he added, as a sudden recollection struck him, "Bournemouth is such a pretty place. One of the men in the shop used to live there, and he says it's perfectly lovely. Write and tell me all about it, won't you?"
She could only nod a reply, for they had arrived at the station, and there was Miss Crawford waiting on the platform.
"Good children to be punctual," she said. "I expect the others every minute. One of them is a little cripple, so his mother will bring him in a cab. Dr. Bethune promised to see the other two safely here. Now, Phil," she continued, "don't you think it will be wiser for you not to wait? I will take good care of Millie, I assure you."
"Yes, perhaps it would. The parting must come. It would do no good to linger over it."
Something called away Miss Crawford's attention, or she made believe it did, while Millie and Phil said good-bye to each other. Phil had no idea it would be such hard work to give his sister that last kiss. They had never been separated for a single day before, and now that Millie was starting in real earnest, he almost wished that he had never persuaded her to leave him, even for so short a time as a fortnight. However, he would not let her see how much he felt it. He gave her a last loving look, a hurried kiss, and was gone.
He could not return the same way by which he and Millie had come together. He chose another road that would take him back to Oxford Street by a less familiar route than up Drury Lane. It seemed to Phil that, with the loss of his sister, his guardian angel had left him. With a sinking heart he thought of the lonely evenings that would now be his, and of the long hours of weary waiting for his uncle's return at night. How difficult it would be to "keep the peace" after all! Poor Phil! With Millie gone, he felt that he had no good influence at work to aid him in resisting the temptation to indulge in sullenness and discontent. He was helpless indeed, for he knew not how to obtain that strength which "is made perfect in weakness."
[CHAPTER VI.]
PHIL BREAKS HIS WORD.
BIG BEN was striking ten as Phil reached home that night. He had stayed over time at business to compensate for his long absence in the middle of the day, and had walked leisurely back to Swift Street. He did not care to hurry himself, for he knew that Millie would not be awaiting him, and even Miss Crawford's drawing-box could not make up for her absence.
On entering the room he found his uncle already there. He was seated at the table with bread and cheese and a jug of ale before him. Phil saw by his heated face and bloodshot eyes that he had been drinking. A feeling of intense disgust and dislike arose in the boy's heart, but he said nothing. He took a chair and sat down as far-away from the table as he could.
"Come here, can't you?" said his uncle.
"Yes, when you have finished," replied his nephew coolly.
"O! O!" returned his uncle in what he intended to be a satirical voice, but his words were so indistinct that Phil could hardly catch them, "so you're such a grand gentleman that you can't eat with poor men like your relations. A pity you should be dependent upon them, isn't it?"
Phil started up with an angry retort upon his lips, when lo! Millie's gentle face and pleading eyes arose in his memory. He sat down again, and was silent.
"Come here, I say, can't you?" began Richard Hunt again.
"No, I won't," said Phil doggedly. "Take your own time; when you have finished, I'll have my supper."
"If you don't come to the table this minute, I'll turn you out of my house, do you hear?" growled the wretched man.