f his sharp, pale countenance, and in
the unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge and me
in turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for the
necessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, a
little huskily still:

"When will he come home?"

"Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come over
in his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's a
bachelor."

The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and then
mechanically took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismally
regarded the name on the back.

"I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across the
street at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walked
down from her gateway to my side, that she might view the stranger
better. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhat
forward way:

"If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr.
Aitken in London."

"Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with a
disconsolate smile.

"Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping across
the dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite close
to the newcomer.

"You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't you
sit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.

"Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant he
would not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eight
years.

Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step.
Waiting to be assured that I preferred standing, the newcomer then
seated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh of
comfort showing how welcome was this rest.

"Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitive
Madge.

"Yes, I--I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubious
answer.

"And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"

"I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.

"Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madge
went on.

"I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay at
the tavern."

"Why, then, what will you do?"

"I don't know--yet," the lad answered, looking the picture of
loneliness.

"Where do you live?" I put in.

"I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the
stage-coach, and arrived just now in