"There it is again," exclaimed Phil angrily, breaking out into one of his sudden outbursts of passion. "It's always uncle, uncle, from morning to night. I'm sick of the sound of the word. I am nobody and nothing, I suppose." "O Phil, dear Phil, don't," said Millie, laying her head upon his shoulder and bursting into tears. "I do love you. You know I do. I have nobody in the world but you. If I hadn't you, I should just like to lie down and die. Don't say such unkind things." "There, there," said Phil tenderly, his anger all melting at sight of his sister's tears. "I didn't mean to vex you. Why, Millie," as her sobs increased, "don't be such a baby. You are a woman now, as you said the other day." And he kissed her, and lovingly stroked back the damp curls from her hot forehead. "Somebody must love uncle, Phil. It's the only thing that will save him. Aunt felt that, I know. And besides, you can't deny that when he's sober, he'll do anything for 'the little lass.'" And Millie smiled bravely, "just to please Phil," as she said to herself. "Well, I'm off," he said when he saw that her tears had ceased. "Don't expect me home till late to-night. There's a lot of extra work to be done, and I must stay overtime. Good-bye, dear." He turned to go, but Millie held out a handful of cherries and looked so pleadingly at him, that against his will, he took them. Then, calling out a last good-bye from the door, Phil tramped downstairs, and Millie saw no more of him till dusk. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. HOW PHIL AND MILLIE CAME TO LIVE IN LONDON. POOR Phil and Millie! Their history had been a sad one, as you shall hear. Until within a year or so of the time when this story opens, they had lived in the pretty seaside village of Chormouth, in the south of Devonshire. Their father, Philip Guntry, was a sailor. He earned good wages as second mate on board a merchant vessel, while their mother employed some of her leisure time in lace-making, a work at which she was particularly skilful. So they were comfortably off, and Millie and Phil, in those days, knew nothing of want and privation. Sometimes, when Millie sat alone in their small close lodgings in Swift Street, she would shut her eyes and conjure up before her the village street and the pretty little cottage that had been her home for so many happy years. Very wistfully she thought of the little room which, with its dainty bed and spotless hangings of white muslin, she had once called her own; of the lovely view from its window; of the creeping rose bush, whose clusters of white blossoms had awakened her on many a sunshiny morning by gently tapping on her window pane; of the comfortable, homely kitchen, and of the parlour where they sat on Sundays, or entertained visitors who, having dropped in for a chat, were prevailed upon to stay and take a cup of tea.