It was past midnight when at last he came. Then his unsteady footsteps and thick hoarse voice told the children only too plainly that he was the worse for drink. He went straight to his own room, and threw himself upon his bed. Millie was relieved that he had done so. She could not bear to see the wretched degraded object that he so frequently made himself. "There," said Phil, as they heard his footsteps pass the door of their living-room, "we must put off speaking to him till to-morrow. Go to bed now, dear. For my part I shall sleep here." With which he placed a couple of chairs side by side, and threw himself upon them. It was a hard bed, but he preferred it to sharing his uncle's room. It was not until two days after that Phil trudged joyfully off to Baverstock House to tell Miss Crawford their uncle had given his consent to her kind proposal, and that Millie had at last been persuaded to go to the seaside. Miss Crawford was at home, and delighted to hear that she should now be able to give her little protégée the benefit of a change of air. She told Phil she intended to take the children herself to Bournemouth, and see them comfortably established in the cottage. Then she went on to say that Dr. Bethune had long wished to carry out this idea of sending his little convalescent patients to the country, but want of means had hitherto prevented it. It was owing to the fact that a sum of money—a thank-offering for recovery from a dangerous illness—had been placed at his disposal that he was at length enabled to put his scheme into execution. As Miss Crawford talked to him, Phil remembered her remark to the gentleman who had been her companion on Waterloo Bridge. Her words had puzzled him at the time: he understood them now. "Do you think you could bring Millie's box and meet us at Waterloo Station on Thursday?" Miss Crawford asked him presently. "I will try," replied Phil. "At what time ought I to be there?" "The train leaves at one o'clock, but you had better be at the station by half-past twelve. Is that an inconvenient hour for you?" "I think I can manage it," said Phil. "We are not busy at the shop in the middle of the day. I dare say they'll give me extra time if I stay later at night to make up for it." "Very well, then, I shall consider it settled. Stay, here is a shilling to pay for the cab." "The box won't be heavy. I can carry it, thank you," said Phil, drawing back. Miss Crawford saw that he preferred to be independent, and did not press the matter. "Now, Phil," she said, as he rose to leave, "I have a parcel for you to take home. It is a present for Millie." The boy crimsoned to the very roots of his hair. "You are very kind, Miss Crawford," he stammered, "but uncle gave Millie some money last night to get some things for herself. I—I think she has everything, thank you. You have been—you are—" In his pride and his confusion Phil broke down.