“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.