When Philip had done his hour’s work, he went in to his employer’s office to say good-bye.

“Tut, tut,” said Mr. Faringfield, looking annoyed at the interruption, “there’s no occasion for goodbyes.  But look you, lad.  I don’t mind your taking the day off, to put yourself into a reasonable state of mind.  Go home, and enjoy a holiday, and come back to your work to-morrow, fresh and cheerful.  Now, now, boy, I won’t hear any more.  Only do as I bid you.”  And he assumed a chilling reserve that indeed froze all further possible discussion.

“But I do say good-bye, sir, and mean it,” said Phil, tremulously.  “And I thank you from my heart for all you’ve done for me.”

And so, with a lump in his throat, Phil hastened home, and sped up the stairs unseen, like a ghost; and had all his things out on his bed for packing, when suddenly Madge, who had been astonished to hear him moving about, from her mother’s room below, flung open his door and looked in upon him, all amazed.

“Why, Phil, what are you doing home at this hour?  What are you putting your things into your valise for?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Phil, very downcast.

“Why, it looks as if—­you were going away somewhere.”

Phil made a brief answer; and then there was a long talk, all the while he continued to pack his goods, in his perturbation stowing things together in strange juxtaposition.  The end of it was that Madge, after vowing that if he went she would never speak to him again, and would hate him for ever, indignantly left him to himself.  Phil went on packing, in all the outward calmness he could muster, though I’ll wager with a very pouting and dismal countenance.  At last, his possessions being bestowed, and the bag fastened with much physical exertion, he left it on the bed, and slipped down-stairs to find his one remaining piece of property.  Philip’s cat had waxed plump in the Faringfield household, Master Ned always deterred from harming it by the knowledge that if aught ill befell it, the finger of accusation would point instantly and surely at him.

Phil was returning up the stairs, his pet under his arm, when Mistress Madge reappeared before him, with magic unexpectedness, from a doorway opening on a landing.  As she stood in his way there, he stopped, and the two faced each other.

“Well,” said she, with sarcastic bitterness, “I suppose you’ve decided where you’re going to.”

“Not yet,” he replied.  He had thought vaguely of Philadelphia or Boston, either of which he now had means of reaching, having saved most of his small salary at the warehouse, for he was not a bound apprentice.

“I make no doubt,” she went on, “’twill be the farthest place you can find.”

Phil gave her a reproachful look, and asked where her mother and the children were, that he might bid them good-bye.  He wondered, indeed, that Madge had not told her mother of his resolve, for, from that lady’s not seeking him at once, he knew that she was still unaware of it.  He little guessed that ’twas the girl’s own power over him she wished to test, and that she would not enlist her mother’s persuasions but as a last resource.