"Millie," she would say to her, when in the long winter evenings Phil was away at his drawing class, and mother and daughter sat alone by the fireside, "Millie, I can't understand why I feel so sure that your father will come back to us some day. It seems impossible, I know, but I can't get rid of an inward conviction that he is not dead. Yet perhaps it is only because my hope of seeing him again is so great that it seems as if it must be realised." But her hope was never realised on earth. Within a year of the wreck of the "Cynthia" smallpox broke out in the village. The dreadful disease spread rapidly, and Mrs. Guntry was one of the first to sicken. An empty cottage on the outskirts of the village had been hastily prepared as a hospital for the sufferers. To this she was taken, and here, in a week or two, she died. Everybody pitied, and did what they could for the poor children who were now left alone in the world. The vicar wrote to an aunt in London, their mother's sister, who was almost the only relative they had, asking her if she could do anything for the orphans. In a few days an answer came from Mrs. Hunt. It brought good news for Phil and Millie. She would gladly give her nephew and niece a home, she said, and she would herself come to Chormouth and take them back with her to London. The children loved their aunt directly they saw her. Her manners were so kind and gentle, and her soft voice and sweet pale face reminded them so much of their dear mother, that their lonely sorrowful hearts were greatly comforted, and they felt at home with her at once. As she bent over Millie on the night of her arrival to give her a last kiss in bed, the child smiled her first smile since that dreadful day when her mother had been carried off to the cottage hospital. Mrs. Hunt remained a few days at Chormouth, arranging the sale of the furniture in the Guntrys' cottage, and settling a few business affairs on behalf of the children. The money in the Savings Bank had been nearly all spent in defraying the expenses of Mrs. Guntry's illness and funeral: the few pounds that remained, Mrs. Hunt resolved should pay for the children's further education, for she was by no means well off, and it was almost more than she could do to give them a home. Then, when all was finished, she went back to London, accompanied by Phil and Millie. They were as happy with their aunt Hunt as they would have been anywhere, perhaps, but they had not been long in the house before they understood the cause of their aunt's anxious face, and the weary vigils that she kept at night as she sat listening for her husband's tardy footsteps; for, alas! Richard Hunt had one great failing, that of indulging in habits of intemperance. It was a constant grief to his wife. He was an artisan—a painter—and they might have lived very pleasantly and comfortably had it not been for his unfortunate love of drink.