“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, and I knew that the novelty of his adoration would make her oblivious of my existence for at least a week to come.  But I bore him no malice, and as the Faringfields turned toward the rear veranda of the house, I said: 

“Come and play with me whenever you like.  That’s where I live, next door.  My name is Herbert Russell, but they call me Bert, for short.”

“Thank you,” said Winwood, and was just about to go down the garden walk between Madge and little Tom, when the whole party was stopped by a faint boo-hooing, in a soft and timid voice, a short distance up the street.

“’Tis Fanny,” cried Mrs. Faringfield, affrightedly, and ran out from the garden to the street.

“Ned has been bullying her,” said Madge, anger suddenly firing her pretty face.  And she, too, was in the street in a moment, followed by all of us, Philip Winwood joining with a ready boyish curiosity and interest in what concerned his new acquaintances.

Sure enough, it was Fanny Faringfield, Madge’s younger sister, coming along the street, her knuckles in her eyes, the tears streaming down her face; and behind her, with his fists in his coat pockets, and his cruel, sneering laugh on his bold, handsome face, came Ned, the eldest of the four Faringfield young ones.  He and Fanny were returning from a children’s afternoon tea-party at the Wilmots’ house in William Street, from which entertainment Madge had stayed away because she had had another quarrel with