Little Phil’s face was very bright when he saw his visitor enter. The sick boy led a lonely life, for there were very few people who ever passed that way, and a visitor was a rare treat to one who could never leave his couch to run about, but always had to wait for somebody to come and see him. “Miss Winnie!” he cried joyously, “how kind of you to come! I was afraid I’d not see you again all the winter when I heard how poorly you’d been. I am so glad!” Phil was twelve years old, although he was so small that he was always spoken of as “little Phil.” His spine was diseased, and he had not grown since he was seven years old; but he had thought a great deal whilst lying on his bed or couch, and his mind was of a thoughtful, devotional bent, which sometimes led people to say that he was “too good to live.” Winnie had known him all her life, and a sort of intimacy had grown up between the two children. At one time the little girl had been a constant visitor at the lodge, but since her long illness this habit had been broken through; and little Phil had sadly missed the visits to which he had grown used--missed them more than Winnie had ever imagined. “I am better to-day, Phil, and mamma said she would drive me to see you. Are you any better?” “No, Miss Winnie, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be better; but I’m used to it, and it don’t make me fret--leastways not often.” “Only when the pain is very bad?” suggested Winifred compassionately, contrasting in her own mind, as she had never done before, the difference between this boy’s lot and her own. “Well, Miss Winnie, I don’t think it’s the pain as I mind most; I’m kind of used even to that; ’tis the lonesomeness as makes me fret sometimes.” “Lonesomeness!” “Why yes, you see, there ain’t hardly any folks to come in and chat a bit, and I can’t get to school; and I’ve read all my books till I know them by heart; and since you’ve been so weak like and poorly there hasn’t seemed anything to make the time pass.” Winnie’s heart smote her sorely, and her face flushed suddenly with pain and shame. She knew it had more often been idleness than weakness which had kept her during the past months from visiting Phil as before; and certainly there could be no excuse for forgetting to lend him books, as she had always done before, from her well-filled shelves. When she thought of the piles of brightly-bound story-books which had been showered upon her during her tardy convalescence, she hardly knew how to look Phil in the face, so ashamed did she feel of her neglect. “I am so sorry, Phil,” she faltered, blushing and looking down. “Oh, don’t you trouble about it, Miss Winnie. Folks didn’t ought to fret for little troubles like that. Besides, I think sometimes it’s done me good, all that thinking I had time for then.” Winifred drew a little nearer, interested by the look on Phil’s face. “What did you think about?” “Oh, ever such a lot of things; and by-and-by it seemed quite clear.” “What seemed clear?”