On entering the room he found his uncle already there. He was seated at the table with bread and cheese and a jug of ale before him. Phil saw by his heated face and bloodshot eyes that he had been drinking. A feeling of intense disgust and dislike arose in the boy's heart, but he said nothing. He took a chair and sat down as far-away from the table as he could. "Come here, can't you?" said his uncle. "Yes, when you have finished," replied his nephew coolly. "O! O!" returned his uncle in what he intended to be a satirical voice, but his words were so indistinct that Phil could hardly catch them, "so you're such a grand gentleman that you can't eat with poor men like your relations. A pity you should be dependent upon them, isn't it?" Phil started up with an angry retort upon his lips, when lo! Millie's gentle face and pleading eyes arose in his memory. He sat down again, and was silent. "Come here, I say, can't you?" began Richard Hunt again. "No, I won't," said Phil doggedly. "Take your own time; when you have finished, I'll have my supper." "If you don't come to the table this minute, I'll turn you out of my house, do you hear?" growled the wretched man. "No, you'll not turn me out, for I'll go of my own accord," cried Phil, his subdued passion breaking suddenly forth. "I'll rub along somehow till Millie comes back, and then she shall choose between you and me. But mind, the moment I can offer her a decent home, no power of yours shall keep us apart. I'll have her then, whether you will or no." Never before had Phil spoken to him in that manner. For a moment he was literally struck dumb with amazement. Then he shouted in a fury of rage and drunkenness: "You dare to speak to me like that?" "Yes, I dare," returned Phil, with flashing eyes. "Then I'll—I'll—" Rising from his chair, he staggered towards his nephew, who stood with his arms folded across his breast, biting his lips and breathing hard, as he watched his uncle's approach. But Phil was not a coward, and there was no trace of fear upon his countenance. It was by no means a dignified or safe proceeding on Mr. Hunt's part. The floor appeared to be swaying beneath his feet, and he clutched hurriedly at the table, at the wall, at anything, in fact, that would support his unsteady steps. He was close upon Phil, and had raised his arm as if to strike him, when he suddenly lost his balance. To recover it, he grasped, as he thought, the little shelf on which Millie kept her books. Instead of that, however, his hand descended heavily upon Miss Crawford's drawing-box which had been placed there for safety, and which, being wider than the shelf, projected some little distance from it. There was a crash—down tumbled the box, and down went Richard Hunt at full length upon the floor. It was useless to give vent to his anger in words. Phil silently picked up the scattered paints and pencils, and replaced them in the box.