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." [Illustration] 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."