would have been easier if he had looked up, or seemed aware of her
presence; but his whole attention was so fixed on getting out the weeds
with his knife, that he evidently had not heard her approach.

"Good afternoon, little boy," she began condescendingly at last.

The boy raised a hot face, and touched his ragged cap. He was much
taller and bigger than Philippa herself but it seemed right to her to
call him "little boy."

"Who are you?" was her first question. "I've never seen you before."

"I'm the new gardener's boy, miss," he answered; "I ain't been here
long."

Philippa looked down at him, wondering what she should say next.

"Are you," she began hesitatingly, after a moment's pause--"are you very
poor?"

The boy seemed a little puzzled. He sat back on his heels, and scraped
the gravel thoughtfully from the blade of his knife.

"We ain't near so bad off as some in Upwell," he said at last; "but we
could do with a little more sometimes, now that Becky's so bad."

"Oh, you live at Upwell, do you?" said Philippa; "and who is Becky, and
why is she bad?"

"She's my sister, miss," answered the boy, "and she's had a fall and
hurted her back. She can't run about, and hasn't not for ever so long.
It's very hard on Becky. She was always one to like running about."

"Won't she ever get well?" asked Philippa, drawing a little nearer, and
speaking with real interest.

"The doctor says she will, if so be she keeps quiet a bit longer, and
has lots of nourishing things," replied the boy.

"Why doesn't she have them, then?" asked Philippa.

The boy cast down his eyes. "Well, you see, miss, up to now things has
been a bit orkerd. Father didn't always bring home much, and I was at
school. But that'll be different now, and I expect we'll get along
fine."

At this moment Miss Mervyn appeared from the house. She carried
Philippa's broad hat, a parasol, and a small knitted shawl, and came
hastening up rather breathless.

"My dear child," she exclaimed, "no hat, nothing to shield you from the
sun, and nothing over your shoulders! You will most certainly be ill!"
She put the hat on Philippa's head, and the shawl round her neck, as she
spoke. "Your tea is ready," she continued, with a puzzled glance at the
boy, who had fallen busily to work again.

Philippa made no other answer than a sharp backward drive with her
elbow, which nearly hit Miss Mervyn in the face as she stooped anxiously
over her. Then she