"But I've got a lovely lettuce for you, and vinegar. Vinegar is always so refreshing, I think, in hot weather. Then there's plenty of cheese, and a bit of beef we had over from yesterday. And—But guess what there is besides." "Is uncle coming home to dinner?" inquired Phil. Millie thought that he was ungraciously ignoring her request, and replied in rather a hurt voice— "No, he said he should not be in till night." Her brother's next words, however, told her that she had wronged him. "Well, then, there will be you, and to have you all to myself for half an hour will be as good as twenty dinners, Millie." There was one noble trait in Phil's character, at any rate, his intense love for his sister. It shone out now from his innermost soul, as looking fondly at her, he tucked her hand under his arm. "No, but do guess what it is," Millie went on eagerly. "It's something so nice—something you will enjoy. Miss Crawford brought it." "Then it's sure to be something good. Tell me, I'm a bad hand at guessing." "A dish of cherries. Such beauties! There was a basket full of them, and at the top she had spread some flowers. I thought it was all flowers at first. Isn't she kind, Phil? And O! She said—But there," exclaimed Millie, suddenly interrupting herself, "we'll have dinner now, and I'll tell you what she said presently." So saying, Millie entered the house in Swift Street in which the brother and sister and their uncle lodged. Their rooms were on the top floor, and the little girl climbed wearily up the long steep staircase. Phil walked behind, taking good care not to hurry her. On every landing there were children playing,—poor, dirty, uncared-for little things who, for the most part, were shoeless and ragged. Some were quarrelling, while some, happier than the rest, were ravenously devouring the slices of bread, thinly spread with jam, that constituted their midday meal. On the second landing, a girl, older than Millie, with a coarse, bold face, called out sneeringly: "Well, you two stuck-ups! Just arrived from your mornin' walk? Ain't you proud of your uncle? He's such an ornament to the family, that you ought to be." "You'd better be careful what you say before my sister, Nora Dickson," returned Phil haughtily. "I won't have her insulted by such a girl as you, I can tell you." Nora answered him with a mocking laugh, but she wisely refrained from further comment, and went on cobbling—it could not be called sewing—the ragged little frock which she held in her hand.