"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,--" "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: