"I couldn't bear to go away till I had seen your mother's grave," Philip Guntry said in a husky voice, as he finished his story, "or I should have gone straight to London. A good thing it was I came, for here I found my little daughter; and," he added, as his encircling arm drew her closer to him, "a right welcome sight she was." * * * * * Miss Crawford and Richard Hunt each received a letter from Millie containing the glad news. The former rejoiced with them in their happiness as deeply as she had sympathised with them in their troubles, and their uncle begged a holiday from his employers and hastened off to Chormouth to greet his brother-in-law. He brought with him a long letter for Millie from Miss Crawford, and inside it there was a tiny note addressed to Phil, and marked "Private." It contained only one line. "You may tell everything now, dear Phil." Phil was glad to have permission to speak; for the weight of the secret had been a heavy burden to bear. He longed to confess and ask forgiveness of his uncle, even as he had confessed his sill to God. That he might die with the deed still upon his conscience, had often been an appalling thought. It was when they were all gathered around the cheerful fire on the Sunday evening of Richard Hunt's visit, and Phil was again enfolded in his father's strong arms—no other resting place was half so comfortable—that he said: "Uncle, I have something to tell you. I fear you will hardly be able to forgive me. I wanted to tell you long ago, but Miss Crawford would not let me. I—I—O," he continued, leaning forward his poor bent body, and putting up his hands in supplication, "if I could, I would kneel at your feet and beg your forgiveness for what I did, but I can't. Uncle, it was not through any fault of yours that the house caught fire. I did it to frighten you. I set it on fire myself." There was a dead silence. They all fancied he was rambling in his mind, and so did not know what he was saying. Phil swallowed down the thickness in his throat, and went on: "You were not sober that night. You said some hard words to me, but I deserved them. O yes, I know I did. I was very angry, and wanted to 'pay you out.' Don't turn away from me, uncle—" that was the boy's fancy, Richard Hunt had but put his hand to his face to brush away a tear—"I have been so sorry ever since. I deserve to be a cripple all my life. I put the shavings and the wood around the candlestick, and I hoped it would flare up and frighten you out of your sleep. I never thought—I never dreamt the house would be burnt. I went out in the streets for an hour or two, and came back just in time to—you know," and he pointed to Millie. "Uncle, can you forgive me now?" "My poor Phil! 'Forgive you?' Will you forgive 'me?'" sobbed Richard Hunt, fairly overcome, and to Phil's amazement, he sank on his knees before him.