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.

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[Illustration: She received her guest with a kind word of welcome.]

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