“I will go to-night, if you can spare me.”

“Not till you have rested, Lisa; and you must drink all that milk your own self.  Did you ever hear of Miss Schuyler?”

“I don’t know,” said Lisa, meditating; “the name is not strange to me.  But there used to be so many visitors at your father’s house, Phil dear, that I cannot be sure.”

“She is so nice and tender and kind—­Have you had a tiresome day, Lisa,” added Phil, quickly, fearing Lisa might think herself neglected in his eager praise of the new friend.

“Yes, rather; but I can go.  So Joe brought her here?”

“Yes; and see these flowers—­yes, you must have some.  Put them in your belt, Lisa.”

“Oh, flowers don’t suit my old clothes, child; keep them yourself, dear.  Well, it is a long lane that has no turning,” she said, half to herself and half to Phil.  “Perhaps God has sent us Miss Schuyler to do for you what I have not been able to; but I have tried—­he knows I have.”

“And I know it too, dear Lisa,” said Phil pulling her down to him, and throwing both arms around her.  “No one could be kinder, Lisa; and I love this old garret room, just because it is your home and mine.  Now get me my harp, and when you have put it in the window you can go; and I will try not to have any pain, so that you won’t have to rub me to-night.”

“Dear child!” was all Lisa could say, as she did what he asked her to do, and then left him alone.

CHAPTER IV

A PROMISE OF BETTER TIMES

When Phil was alone again, he waited impatiently for the long twilight to end in darkness, and the stars to come out.  It seemed a very long time.  Once in a while a faint murmur came from his harp, but it was a mere breathing of sound, and he turned restlessly in his chair.  Then he closed his eyes and waited again, and his waiting was rewarded by a small voice in his ear whispering,

“Here we are! here we are!”

“Oh,” said Phil, “I thought you never would come again.”

“Tut, tut, child, you must not be so doubtful,” said the little voice again, and the starry coronet gleamed in his eyes.  “I have brought you some sweet odors of wild-flowers, and spicy breath of pine and hemlock, for I thought you needed a tonic.”

Phil smelled something exquisite as she spoke, but all he said was,

“What is a tonic?”

“Something the doctors give when children are pale and thin, and do not have enough fresh air.  I don’t pretend to know what it means, but I often go to see sick children in hospitals, and so I hear about such things.”

“Hark! is that my wind harp?—­why, it sounds like water dropping and gurgling over stones.”

“It is the song of a mountain brook that my friends are singing as they dance over your harp.  Look!”

Phil looked, and saw the flock of fairies like white butterflies swarming again over his harp, and heard the soft, sweet singing which kept time to their steps.