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."

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