One evening, I sat upon our front step, in a kind
of torpid state of mind through my refusal to contemplate the dismal
future. My eye turned listlessly down the street. The only moving
figure in it was that of a slender man approaching on the further side
of the way. He carried two valises, one with each hand, and leaned a
little forward as he strode, as if weary. Instantly I thought of years
ago, and another figure coming up that street, with both hands laden,
and walking in a manner of fatigue. I rose, gazed with a fast-beating
heart at the man coming nearer at every step, stifled a cry that
turned into a sob, and ran across the street. He saw me, stopped, set
down his burdens, and waited for me, with a tired, kind smile. I could
not speak aloud, but threw my arms around him, and buried my clouded
eyes upon his shoulder, whispering: "Phil! 'Tis you!"
"Ay," said he, "back at last. I thought I'd walk up from the boat just
as I did that first day I came to New York."
"And just as then," said I, having raised my face and released him, "I
was on the step yonder, and saw you coming, and noticed that you
carried baggage in each hand, and that you walked as if you were
tired."
"I am tired," said he, "but I walk as my wounds let me."
"But there's no cat this time," said I, attempting a smile.
"No, there's no cat," he replied. "And no--"
His eye turned toward the Faringfield garden gate, and he broke off
with the question: "How are they? and your mother?"
I told him what I could, as I picked up one of his valises and
accompanied him across the street, thinking how I had done a similar
office on the former occasion, and of the pretty girl that had made
the scene so bright to both him and me.
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