"I wish I could afford to make you something better, my lad; you ought to be something better by rights. And I don't well know what you'll find to do in this little shop. The business might be better; yes, might be better. You won't have much practice in dispensing, I'm afraid, unless things improve. It is mostly hair-oil,--and the patent medicines. It's a poor look-out for you, Julian." There was a silence. "Harriet isn't quite well yet, is she?" Smales went on, half to himself. "No, she looked poorly to-night." "Julian," began the other, but paused, rubbing his hands more nervously than ever. "Yes, uncle?" "I wonder what 'ud become of her if I--if I died now? You're growing up, and you're a clever lad; you'll soon be able to shift for yourself. But what'll Harriet do? If only she had her health. And I shall have nothing to leave either her or you, Julian,--nothing,--nothing! She'll have to get her living somehow. I must think of some easy business for her, I must. She might be a teacher, but her head isn't strong enough, I fear. Julian--" "Yes, uncle?" "You--you are old enough to understand things, my boy," went on his uncle, with quavering voice. "Suppose, after I'm dead and gone, Harriet should want help. She won't make many friends, I fear, and she'll have bad health. Suppose she was in want of any kind,--you'd stand by her, Julian, wouldn't you? You'd be a friend to her,--always?" "Indeed I would, uncle!" exclaimed the boy stoutly. "You promise me that, Julian, this Christmas night?--you promise it?" "Yes, I promise, uncle. You've always been kind and good to me, and see if I'm not the same to Harriet." His voice trembled with generous emotion. "No, I sha'n't see it, my boy," said Smales, shaking his head drearily; "but the promise will be a comfort to me at the end, a comfort to me. You're a good lad, Julian!" Silence came upon them again. In the same district, in one of a row of semi-detached houses standing in gardens, lived Ida's little friend, Maud Enderby, with her aunt, Miss Bygrave, a lady of forty-two or forty-three. The rooms were small and dark; the furniture sparse, old-fashioned, and much worn; there were no ornaments in any of the rooms, with the exception of a few pictures representing the saddest incidents in the life of Christ. On entering the front door you were oppressed by the chill, damp atmosphere, and by a certain unnatural stillness. The stairs were not carpeted, but stained a dark colour; a footfall upon them, however light, echoed strangely as if from empty chambers above. There was no sign of lack of repair; perfect order and cleanliness wherever the eye penetrated; yet the general effect was an unspeakable desolation.