Philip Winwood | Page 5

at last she thought of sending
me to him, that he might get me a place or something; and she wrote
the letter to tell him who I was; and she saw to it that I should have
money enough to come to New York,--"
"But I don't understand," interrupted Mr. Faringfield, frowning his
disapproval of something. "What made it necessary for her to dispose

of you? Was she going to marry again?"
"She was going to die, sir," replied the boy, in a reserved tone which,
despite his bashfulness, both showed his own hurt, and rebuked his
elder's thoughtless question.
"Poor boy!" whispered Mrs. Faringfield, grasping her little Tom's hand.
"Oh," said her husband, slowly, slightly awed from his sternness. "I beg
your pardon, my lad. I am very sorry, indeed. Your being here, then,
means that you are now an orphan?"
"Yes, sir," was the boy's only answer, and he lowered his eyes toward
his kitten, and so sad and lonely an expression came into his face that
no wonder Mrs. Faringfield whispered again, "Poor lad," and even
Madge and little Tom looked solemn.
"Well, boy, something must be done about you, that's certain," said Mr.
Faringfield. "You have no money, my daughter says. Spent all you had
for cakes and kickshaws in the towns where the stage-coach stopped,
I'll warrant."
The boy smiled. "The riding made me hungry sir," said he. "I'd have
saved my extra shilling if I'd known how it was going to be."
"But is there nothing coming to you in Philadelphia? Did your mother
leave nothing?"
"Everything was sold at auction to pay our debts--it took the books and
our furniture and all, to do that."
"The books?"
"We kept a book-shop, sir. My father left it to us. He was a bookseller,
but he was a gentleman and an Oxford man."
"And he didn't make a fortune at the book trade, eh?"
"No, sir. I've heard people say he would rather read his books than sell

them."
"From your studious look I should say you took after him."
"I do like to read, sir," the lad admitted quietly, smiling again.
Here Madge put in, with the very belated query:
"What's your name?"
"Philip Winwood," the boy answered, looking at her pleasantly.
"Well, Master Winwood," said Madge's father, "we shall have to take
you in overnight, at least, and then see what's to be done."
At this Mrs. Faringfield said hastily, with a touch of alarm:
"But, my dear, is it quite safe? The child might--might have the measles
or something, you know."
Madge tittered openly, and Philip Winwood looked puzzled. Mr.
Faringfield answered:
"One can see he is a healthy lad, and cleanly, though he is tired and
dusty from his journey. He may occupy the end garret room. 'Tis an
odd travelling companion you carry, my boy. Did you bring the cat
from Philadelphia?"
"Yes, sir; my mother was fond of it, and I didn't like to leave it behind."
The kitten drew back from the stately gentleman's attempt to tap its
nose with his finger, and evinced a desire to make the acquaintance of
his wife, toward whom it put forth its head as far as possible out of its
basket, beginning the while to purr.
"Look, mamma, it wants to come to you," cried little Tom, delighted.
"Cats and dogs always make friends quicker with handsome people,"
said Philip Winwood, with no other intent than merely to utter a fact, of

which those who observe the lower animals are well aware.
"There, my dear," said Mr. Faringfield, "there's a compliment for you at
my expense."
The lady, who had laughed to conceal her pleasure at so innocent a
tribute, now freely caressed the kitten; of which she had been shy
before, as if it also might have the measles.
"Well, Philip," she said, a moment later, "come in, and feel that you are
at home. You'll have just time to wash, and brush the dust off, before
supper. He shall occupy the second spare chamber, William," she
added, turning to her husband. "How could you think of sending so nice
and good-looking a lad to the garret? Leave your travelling-bag here,
child; the servants shall carry it in for you."
"This is so kind of you, ma'am, and sir," said Philip, with a lump in his
throat; and able to speak his gratitude the less, because he felt it the
more.
"I am the one you ought to thank," said Madge archly, thus calling forth
a reproving "Margaret!" from her mother, and an embarrassed
smile--part amusement, part thanks, part admiration--from Philip. The
smile so pleased Madge, that she gave one in return and then actually
dropped her eyes.
I saw with a pang that the newcomer was already in love with her,