From the first hour of their meeting Phil and his uncle never got on well together. There was something strangely antagonistic between them. Phil was reserved, cold, almost sullen towards his uncle, who never took the trouble to overcome his nephew's dislike, or interest himself in Phil's pursuits. With Millie it was different; he took a great fancy to her. Perhaps she reminded him of his tiny fair-haired child, whose short life of three years had ended in so sudden and painful a manner. It happened that "Baby," as they still called her, was left alone in the kitchen, and thinking, poor little one! what a bright pretty plaything the fire would make, she began pulling out the blazing sticks. One of these must have fallen upon her print pinafore, and instantly the child was in flames. Her screams alarmed her mother, who came flying to the spot. Seizing the child, she enveloped her in a thick shawl, and so extinguished the fire, but not before the tender limbs had been most fearfully burned. Three days after that fatal morning, "Baby" died, and so intense had been her agony that the mother at last prayed that death might come to put an end to her darling's sufferings. Poor mother! She felt that to her dying day she could never forgive herself for having left her child alone on the disastrous morning of the accident. No second bairn ever came to take "Baby's" empty place. Two years after that sad event, Mrs. Gantry died, and her sister at once asked her husband's permission to bring the two orphaned children to share their home. He objected strongly at first, remarking, very justly, that what would keep two persons in tolerable comfort was a short allowance for four. But Mrs. Hunt cheerfully talked away all difficulties, and at last her wish was gratified. In Millie's sweet companionship and loving care they felt repaid for what they had done. She settled down at once, taking upon herself certain of the household duties—"the little lass" being her uncle's pet name for her. Phil was by no means so happy. He went with his sister to school for the first few weeks after their arrival in London, but feeling sure that his uncle considered him a lazy fellow, who preferred idling his time over his books to any more profitable employment, he begged to be allowed to seek a situation. He soon obtained one, but was miserable in it. He was always longing for time to study and draw, and every spare moment was occupied with a book or pencil. He hated London, too, and London life. He felt "suffocated and smoke-dried," he said, and he longed intensely for the freedom and fresh air of the country.