“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 don’t very well see how I can go back,” said the boy slowly.

“Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?” Madge went on.

“I don’t know any one else here,” was the reply, “and I can’t stay at the tavern.”

“Why, then, what will you do?”

“I don’t know—­yet,” the lad answered, looking the picture of loneliness.

“Where do you live?” I put in.

“I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the stage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat.”

“And why can’t you go back there?” I continued.

“Why, because,—­I had just money enough left to pay my way to New York; and even if I should walk back, I’ve no place there to go back to, and no one at all—­now—­” He broke off here, his voice faltering; and his blue eyes filled with moisture.  But he made a swallow, and checked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.

For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhat abashed at the lad’s evident emotion.  Madge studied his countenance intently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose little Tom—­her younger and favourite brother—­in this stranger’s place.  Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, “Wait here,” and turning, ran back across the street, and disappeared through the garden gate.

Instead of following her, the dog went up to the new boy’s cat and sniffed at its nose, causing it to whisk back its head and gaze spellbound.  To show his peaceful mind, the dog wagged his tail, and by degrees so won the kitten’s confidence that it presently put forth its face again and exchanged sniffs.

“I should think you’d have a dog, instead of a cat,” said I, considering the stranger’s sex.