He answered nothing to this, but looked quite affectionately at his pet.  I set it down as odd that so manly a lad should so openly show liking for a cat.  The conduct of the animal in its making acquaintance with the dog; the good-humoured assurance of the one, and the cautious coyness of the other; amused us till presently Madge’s voice was heard; and then we saw her coming from the garden, speaking to her father, who walked bareheaded beside her.  Behind, at a little distance, came Madge’s mother and little Tom.  All four stopped at the gateway, and looked curiously toward us.

“Come over here, boy,” called Madge, and heeded not the reproof her mother instantly gave her in an undertone for her forwardness.  For any one of his children but Madge, reproof would have come from her father also; in all save where she was concerned, he was a singularly correct and dignified man, to the point of stiffness and austerity.  His wife, a pretty, vain, inoffensive woman, was always chiding her children for their smaller faults, and never seeing the traits that might lead to graver ones.

Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield awaited the effect of Madge’s invitation, or rather command, adding nothing to it.  The boy’s colour showed his diffidence, under the scrutiny of so many coldly inquiring eyes; but after a moment he rose, and I, with greater quickness, seized his bag by the handle and started across the street with it.  He called out a surprised and grateful “Thank you,” and followed me.  I was speedily glad I had not undertaken to carry the bag as far as he had done; ’twas all I could do to bear it.

“How is this, lad?” said Mr. Faringfield, when the boy, with hat off, stood before him.  The tone was stern enough, a stranger would have thought, though it was indeed a kindly one for Madge’s father.  “You have come from Philadelphia to visit Mr. Aitken?  Is he your relation?”

“No, sir; he was a friend of my father’s before my father came to America,” replied the lad, in a low, respectful voice.

“Yet your father did not know he was gone back to England?  How is that?”

“My father is dead, sir; he died six years ago.”

“Oh, I see,” replied Mr. Faringfield, a little taken down from his severity.  “And the letter my little girl tells me of?”

“If you please, my mother wrote it, sir,” said the boy, looking at the letter in his hand, his voice trembling a little.  He seemed to think, from the manner of the Faringfields, that he was obliged to give a full account of himself, and so went on.  “She didn’t know what else to do about me, sir, as there was no one in Philadelphia—­that is, I mean, she remembered what a friend Mr. Aitken was to my father—­they were both of Oxford, sir; Magdalen college.  And so 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,—­”