Presently there appeared a little girl, Emily by name, who slept in a tiny attic all by herself, and who was very slow in dressing, and generally late in coming down. "Come, bustle about, Emily," said her mother. "Here, this slice of bread is very dry, so toast it, and then it will be extra nice." Emily obeyed. Philip got a broom and swept out the kitchen; Mr. Rowles brought in a handful of mustard-and-cress as a relish for bread-and-butter. And soon they were all seated at the table. "Not a boat in sight," said Mr. Rowles; "nor yet a punt." "It is early yet," replied his wife; "wait until the first train from London comes in." "Like enough there will be folks come by it," rejoined Rowles; "they must be precious glad to get out of London this hot day." "Why must they be glad, father?" asked Philip. "Because London is awful hot in hot weather; it seems as if it had not got enough air for all the folks to breathe that live in it. Millions of people, Philip. Write down a million on your slate, boy." Philip brought his slate and pencil and wrote 1,000,000. "Write it over again, and twice more. Now that seems a good many, eh? Well, there are more people in London than all those millions on your slate. What do you think of that?" The boy had no idea at all of what a million of people would look like, nor a million of lemon drops, nor a million of anything. He did not even try to gain an idea on the subject. "Mother," said Emily, "does Aunt Mary live in London? And Albert and Juliet and Florry and Neddy--and--and all the others." "Yes, poor things! they live in London." "And they don't like hot days in London?" "Hot days must be better than cold ones. I say, Rowles," and his wife turned to him and spoke in a gentler tone, "do you know I have been thinking so much lately about Mary and all of them. It is a long time since we had a letter. I wonder if it is all right with them." "As right as usual, I'll be bound," said Rowles gruffly. "I've a sort of feeling on me," Mrs. Rowles pursued, "that they are not doing well. The saying is, that no news is good news; but I'm not so sure of that--not always." "Mary went her own way," said the lock-keeper, "and if it turns out the wrong way it is no business of mine. When a woman marries a fine, stuck-up London printer, who works all night on a morning paper and sleeps half the day, what can you expect? Can you expect good health, or good temper, or good looks from a man who turns night into day and day into night?"