And so they went in to supper, disappearing from my sight behind the
corner of the parlour wing as they mounted the rear veranda: Mr. and
Mrs. Faringfield first, the mother leading Fanny by the wounded wrist;
the big dog next, wagging his tail for no particular reason; and then
Philip Winwood, with his cat in his basket, Madge at one side of him
and pretending an interest in the kitten while from beneath her lashes
she alertly watched the boy himself, little Tom on the other side
holding Philip's hand. I stood at the gateway, looking after; and with
all my young infatuation for Madge, I had no feeling but one of
liking, for this quiet, strange lad, with the pale, kind face. And I
would to God I might see those three still walking together, as when
children, through this life that has dealt so strangely with them all
since that Summer evening.
CHAPTER II.
_The Faringfields._
Having shown how Philip Winwood came among us, I ought to tell at
once, though of course I learned it from him afterwards, all that need
be known of his previous life. His father, after leaving Oxford and
studying medicine in Edinburgh, had married a lady of the latter city,
and emigrated to Philadelphia to practise as a physician. But whether
'twas that the Quaker metropolis was overstocked with doctors even
then, or for other reasons, there was little call for Doctor Winwood's
ministrations.
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