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.
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