"Until to-morrow," said John.

He stood at the curb watching the receding car. When he reentered the house, his smile lighted his face wonderfully.

"What do you think, Phyllis!" whispered the Honorable Margaret, her eye on the chauffeur. "Mark Holroyd telephoned me at the Settlement. He told me he needed bucking up a bit, and was coming to me to be comforted.

He's to be at the house at nine. Isn't he the dearest fellow?"

Phyllis opened her eyes wide; and then half closed them.

"He is one of the dearest, Peggy," she said softly.

III

"Lady Neville is a most estimable woman," observed Sir Peter, at breakfast the next morning, "and your friend Margaret is a very nice girl, as I have observed. But these places, my dear, these social settlements, as they call them, Saint Ruth's, and--er--the rest of them, are the breeding-places of discontent, of unrest hotbeds of socialism. I can't approve of your going there often."

"Well, of course, Uncle Peter, you know far more about it than I do. But I should think that Saint Ruth's would make the poor people more contented. If there were no such clean, bright, cheery places to go to, and to leave their babies in, and to hear music on summer nights, and see the motion-pictures which make them forget their hard, drudging, colorless lives for a little while,"--here Phyllis caught her breath in that fascinating way she has--"if there were no such helpful places, I should think they might be more hopeless and bitter. But when they know that Lady Neville, and you, and other rich people care something for them,--enough to want to give them some happy hours; when they see Peggy Neville teaching their little girls to sew,--don't you think they may feel less like throwing a stone through the windows of her motor?"

"Perhaps, my dear child, perhaps. I do not say you are wrong. I am inclined to think, however, that they suppose these--er--social settlements are maintained by the County Council, and supported by the rates. And I rather think," added Sir Peter, lighting his cigar, "I rather think they believe they pay the rates themselves."

"Have you ever visited Saint Ruth's, Uncle Peter? But I am sure you haven't, or I should have known it. Now, how can you sit in your library here and a.n.a.lyze the thoughts and motives of those poor people? What must Saint Ruth's seem to them, compared with their miserable dwellings?"

"I can't say I have ever been there," owned Sir Peter, "but I am one of the Board of Trustees, in charge of the funds of several philanthropic inst.i.tutions, and I hear these things discussed. But, my dear child, I do not wish to offer any objection to your going there if you are interested. Good idea; see the other side. Of course, you won't ever go alone, though. Those East End streets, you know--better take the car and have Thompson wait. I will make an inquiry or two of Sir Charles Anstruther at the Club; he takes a deep interest in--er--these social settlements,--Toynbee Hall and----Ten o'clock! I shall be late.

Good-bye, my dear. Have a good time in your own way."

Phyllis may have confused inclination with duty a little; in any event, Mrs. Thorpe, whose kind face might have served for a likeness of Saint Ruth herself, found plenty of work for her. And Phyllis did love the babies; they did not all look alike to her, as they did to John. The Honorable Margaret found her quite at home when Thursday rolled around.

"Good for you, Phil!" was her salutation "My word! Don't they get dirty over-night!"

When a month had pa.s.sed, it was Phyllis's custom to go to Saint Ruth's nearly every day. The work was engrossing; Dr. Thorpe warned her against overdoing it; his experience of volunteer workers was large.

"Oh! she will stay with us," laughed Mrs. Thorpe, to whom his misgivings were clear. "Miss Oglebay and I are to make calls in the neighborhood this afternoon."

"You will see sad sights," said the doctor; "but lots of funny ones, too."

To the Christmas ceremonies she brought Sir Peter, determined to be pleased, against his better judgment. He liked Dr. Thorpe at once; Sir Peter knew a man when he saw one. Mrs. Thorpe made him chuckle; so he liked her, too. The place was crowded; mostly with the very poor, in their best and at their best; but Sir Peter was surprised to meet a number of his acquaintances; not so surprised as they were, however.

There were two adjoining houses to be leased and connected with Saint Ruth's; a matter of arrangement was submitted by Dr. Thorpe. Sir Peter paced off the rooms for himself and gave his opinion. Dr. Thorpe consulted strangers on problems of obvious solution; the hard ones he and Mrs. Thorpe thought out after they went to bed.

They occupied front seats for the entertainment and Phyllis pointed people out to him.

"There is Father Carroll," she said, indicating direction with her programme. "Dr. Thorpe and Father Carroll and Mr. Landless are the committee. Father Carroll will give the address later; Mr. Landless arranged the songs. I helped him with that."

The entertainment was a success. Such proud mothers and fathers when the prizes were distributed! Every child had honorable mention, at least.

Father Carroll told the funniest stories; how the crowd laughed. And when he talked seriously to them--you could have heard a pin drop.

When John was introduced to Sir Peter, he stood very straight; one stood at attention instinctively, before Sir Peter.

"Very pleased, indeed, to meet you, sir," said Sir Peter. "You don't happen to be of the Suss.e.x Landlesses, do you; I knew a Hugh Landless at Cambridge."

"Yes, sir. They are my people. He was my father."

"Really. Let me see: he took orders, did he not? I hope I am not to infer----"

"He died last June, sir."

"I beg your pardon. I didn't know. I am sorry not to have seen more of him after he left the University. He was a most likeable fellow. We shall see more of you, I trust? Have you been long in London?"

"I came after--at once. There was nothing to keep me there, and I felt I must begin work in my profession immediately."

If John had been looking at Phyllis, he would have seen her face flush slightly; an anxious look came into her eyes. But he was looking at Sir Peter.

"What is it to be?" asked Sir Peter. "Not the Church?"

"No, sir." John's chin was noticeable now. "I follow the profession of poetry."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Sir Peter, and would have said more.

"Isn't it fine, Uncle Peter!" Phyllis interrupted, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes starry pleaders for a lost cause. "Mr. Landless means to be a poet. That is his chosen profession. Don't you think it fine to make such a choice,--when one has the talent, of course?" Her earnest voice fell before Sir Peter's stony gaze.

"But poetry isn't a profession," declared Sir Peter roundly. He gave a short, hard laugh. "A pastime, perhaps; a recreation; but not a profession, Mr. Landless. But, pshaw! You don't expect me to take you seriously?"

There was an awkward moment. When Phyllis ventured a look at John, she was surprised to see him smiling.

"I a.s.sure you I am quite serious," he answered easily. "But I am accustomed to the other view. Thank you cordially for your willingness to see something of me. My father would have been pleased. When I was going through his papers I fancy I ran across your name in one of his old diaries. You won't think me disrespectful if I tell you that the diary spoke of you as 'Top' Oglebay."

"Good Gad!" said Sir Peter; "I have not heard that name in thirty years.

Yes, I was 'Top' Oglebay."

Phyllis was glad to see Mark Holroyd and her dear Peggy Neville coming toward them. Mark was sheepish, at first, but Phyllis put him at his ease in no time. The Honorable Margaret and John Landless were sworn friends. John had applied the test to her. "Perfectly smashing!" was her expressed opinion of his profession; the foresight of Phyllis had smoothed the way.

"Well, well," said Sir Peter, as they drove homeward, "that was all very interesting and new. You will help me to remember to send a check to Thorpe in the morning, won't you, my dear?"

Phyllis, snuggled in furs, wondered if she dared to make a remark, ever so casually, about Mr. Landless; concluded she daren't, and resigned herself to think of him in silence.

A week later John presented himself, in evening dress. Sir Peter chatted with them for a while, and then buried himself in the "Engineering Review." Over this he nodded, oblivious, while John recited his verses to Phyllis at the other end of the long library. They were pretty verses; Phyllis thought them beautiful. You should have seen John's smile. He tried to screw his courage up to recite his "Lines to Phyllis," but at ten he hadn't, and Sir Peter awoke then, and reentered the conversation.

John said good-night to Sir Peter in the library. He would have to Phyllis, also, but she went with him into the hall. Sir Peter followed them there, and said good-night again, in the friendliest way.

Phyllis called on Saint Ruth's neighbors often in the weeks that followed. Mindful of her uncle's command, she was never alone. Sometimes Mrs. Thorpe, at others Peggy Neville, and quite often John Landless went with her. The squalor and misery all about them was shocking to every sense; hideous at its worst; but the sharp, sweet, bitter-sweet memories of those winter afternoons will linger in Phyllis's mind as long as she lives. Sad memories and joyous ones! And one more lovely than all the rest.

There came a day when, long in advance of its arrival, there was a sudden hint of spring. Carrying a parcel, John walked beside Phyllis.

The soft air was filled with magic. The mildness of it brought the tenement dwellers to windows and doors.

"Warm, isn't it?" remarked John, trying to fan himself with the parcel, and failing "Please don't walk so fast? I have something to tell you."

"Tell away, Mr. Landless, tell away," said Phyllis, gayly, and slackened her pace. "Is there good news of your book? Do the flinty-hearted publishers at last see their opportunity?"