lost the shape of grief; and Phil never thought to ask himself how
much of her pleasure was for his not going, and how much for the
evidence given of her feminine power. He had presently another thing
to consider, a not very palatable dose to swallow--the returning to
the warehouse and telling Mr. Faringfield of his change of mind. He
did this awkwardly enough, no doubt, but manfully enough, I'll take my
oath, though he always said he felt never so tamed and small and
ludicrous in his life, before or after.

And that scene upon the landing is the last picture, but one, I have
to present of childhood days, ere I hasten, over the period that
brought us all into our twenties and to strange, eventful times. The
one remaining sketch is of an unkempt, bedraggled figure that I saw at
the back hall door of the Faringfields one snowy night a week later,
when, for some reason or other, I was out late in our back garden.
This person, instead of knocking at the door, very cautiously tried it
to see if it would open, and, finding it locked, stood timidly back
and gazed at it in a quandary. Suspecting mischief, I went to the
paling fence that separated our ground from the Faringfields', and
called out, "Who's that?"

"Hallo, Bert!" came in a very conciliating tone, low-spoken; and then,
as with a sudden thought, "Come over here, will you?"

I crossed the fence, and was in a moment at the side of Master Ned,
who looked exceedingly the worse for wear, in face, figure, and
clothes.

"Look here," said he, speaking rapidly, so as to prevent my touching
the subject of his return, "I want to sneak in, and up-stairs to bed,