Phil bent down—he could just manage to do that—and kissing his uncle, said gratefully and reverently: "You have made me so happy, dear uncle. Thank you very much. May God forgive us both!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. STRONGER THAN DEATH. SO the brighter days that Millie had talked about in Drury Lane had really come! Their father obtained work at Moultonsea, where he went to and fro by rail morning and evening. Then their old cottage in the village street happening to be empty ("It seemed to be on purpose," Phil said), they moved into it before Christmas. Little by little, too, they got back the greater part of their old furniture, for the neighbours who had purchased it, offered it to them at the same prices which they themselves had paid for it, while those who could afford to be generous came and begged them to accept as a gift a chair, a bedstead, or table, as the case might be. There was hardly any perceptible change in Phil. If anything, he grew weaker, but they fondly hoped it was only the winter weather that tried him. Millie was his devoted nurse during the day; her father taking her place at night. If he was well enough, and the weather was favourable, she would wheel him out in his chair, but that happened less and less frequently as time advanced. It hurt his back, he said. What he liked best was to be carried in his father's arms around their little garden on a Sunday afternoon. That never tired him, and he loved to listen to the mellow pealing of the bells, as they rang the villagers to church. "What a big, old baby I am, father!" he would say saucily. To which, with a loving smile, his father would answer: "I wonder you aren't ashamed to be such a plague at your age," but all the while, he noticed with a heavy heart that every time he lifted his "baby," he found the load a lighter one. At the beginning of spring there came a more noticeable change. Then even Millie, who was always making herself believe that Phil would be well and strong again some day, perceived only too plainly that he daily became weaker, and his appetite less. She was glad when the drawing which he intended to give Miss Crawford was at length finished, for even the exertion of holding a pencil fatigued him. "You won't begin anything else, will you, dear?" she said when, having pronounced his sketch completed, he called his sister to admire it. "No, Millie, but I wanted to give Miss Crawford something that would make her remember me. She'll hang this up in her room, I know, and she'll think of me whenever she looks at it." Then after a pause, he said in a voice that was full of longing, "I should so like to see her again, Millie, before I die." "You will not leave us yet, darling, I hope," replied Millie, bravely keeping back her tears, "but if you wish, I'll write and tell her what you say." "Do you think she would come?" "I am sure she will. I'll send her a letter at once."