"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.
"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."