Philip Winwood | Page 3

were old and carefully mended. His gray silk stockings
ill accorded with his poor shoes, of which the buckles were of steel. He
carried in one hand a large, ancient travelling-bag, so heavy that it
strained his muscles and dragged him down, thus partly explaining the
fatigued look in his face; and in his other hand a basket, from the open

top of which there appeared, thrust out, the head of a live gray kitten.
This pretty animal's look of strangeness to its surroundings, as it gazed
about with curiosity, would alone have proclaimed that it was arrived
from travel; had not the baggage and appearance of its bearer told the
same story. The boy, also, kept an alert eye forward as he advanced up
the street, but it was soon evident that he gazed in search of some
particular object. This object, as the lad finally satisfied himself by
scanning it and its neighbours twice over, proved to be the house
immediately opposite ours. It was one of a row of small, old brick
residences, with Dutch gable ends toward the street. Having made sure
of its identity, and having reddened a little at the gaze of Madge and me,
the young stranger set down his bag with perceptible signs of physical
relief, and, keeping in his grasp the basket with the cat, knocked with a
seemingly forced boldness--as if he were conscious of timidity to be
overcome--upon the door.
At that, Madge Faringfield could not help laughing aloud.
It was a light, rippling, little laugh, entirely good-natured, lasting but a
moment. But it sufficed to make the boy turn and look at her and blush
again, as if he were hurt but bore no resentment.
Then I, who knew what it was to be wounded by a girl's laugh,
especially Madge's, thought it time to explain, and called out to the lad:
"There's nobody at home there."
The boy gazed at me at a loss; then, plainly reluctant to believe me, he
once more inspected the blank, closed front of the house, for denial or
confirmation of my word. When he next looked back at me, the
expression of inquiring helplessness and vague alarm on his face, as if
the earth were giving way beneath his feet, was half comical, half
pitiful to see.
"It is Mr. Aitken's house, is it not?" he asked, in a tone low and civil,
though it seemed to betray a rapid beating of the heart after a sudden
sinking thereof.

"It was," I replied, "but he has gone back to England, and that house is
empty."
The lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other
way than in the forlorn expression of his sharp, pale countenance, and
in the unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge
and me in turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for the
necessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, a
little huskily still:
"When will he come home?"
"Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come over
in his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's a
bachelor."
The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and then mechanically
took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismally regarded the
name on the back.
"I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across the
street at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walked
down from her gateway to my side, that she might view the stranger
better. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhat
forward way:
"If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr. Aitken in
London."
"Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with a
disconsolate smile.
"Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping
across the dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite
close to the newcomer.
"You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't you
sit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.

"Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant he
would not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eight
years.
Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step.
Waiting to be assured that I preferred standing, the newcomer then
seated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh of
comfort showing how welcome was this rest.
"Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitive
Madge.
"Yes, I--I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubious
answer.
"And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"
"I