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,--"

"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