As Millie had said, the dinner did look inviting. Yet it was only owing to the nice arrangement of the dishes, the cleanliness of the cloth, and the polish upon the knives and forks, that it had that appearance, for the food itself was small in quantity, and second-rate in quality. There was an air of neatness and refinement about the room too, which was evidently the result of Millie's care and taste; Millie, the child-woman, who in the twelve years of her short life had seen so many changes, and experienced so many of this world's sorrows and troubles. "Well," said Phil, cutting up his lettuce and beginning to eat with a relish that told of a good healthy appetite. "Well, what did Miss Crawford say?" "Why," replied Millie, the glad, happy look coming back again into her eyes, "she said I was to go to her house and have tea with her. She did, Phil. Aren't you glad?" "Jolly glad, little woman. It will just do you good to have a change, and plenty of something nice to eat for once in the way. When are you going?" "Not till next week, because Miss Crawford's brother is ill, and she has to nurse him. But he is getting better now, she says, and as soon as ever she is at leisure, she will fix a day for me to go." "She lives in Kennington Road, doesn't she?" Phil asked. "Yes, Baverstock House, Kennington Road. I remember it, because I saw aunt direct a letter to her once." Then, with a change in her voice, Millie continued, "Phil, I think that before aunt died she must have asked Miss Crawford to look after me a bit, for she told me this morning that whenever I was in trouble, and wanted a friend, I was always to let her know, and she would help me in any way she could. She was so grieved about uncle too. She said she wished she could find me a more comfortable home than this. But when I told her that I wouldn't leave you nor uncle, she smiled, and said that I was right, and that so long as uncle was willing to have me, it was best for me to stay." "But it's not good for you to be here. I know that well enough," Phil returned bitterly. "I wish I could take you away; but we shall have to wait for that." "I shouldn't leave uncle under any circumstances," said Millie earnestly and resolutely. "I promised aunt that, however bad he might be, I would always care for him and attend to him, just as she would have done if she had lived." "You're a good girl," said Phil, "but flesh and blood can't stand too much. However," he added more cheerfully, "we won't talk about our troubles any more. Get out your cherries. I must be back at one; so I have no time to spare." Even Phil's gloomy face brightened as Millie took from the cupboard a plate of beautiful "bigaroons." He ate a dozen or so with considerable gusto, then stopped short. "Why, Millie, you're eating none," he said. "Mind, I shan't have a single cherry more than you, so please make haste. They won't keep this weather, you know." "But—but uncle would like some," said Millie timidly.