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. Alas, there was no pretty girl
standing at the gate, beside her proud and stately parents, and her
open-eyed little brother, to receive us. I remembered how Ned and
Fanny had come upon the scene, so that for a moment the whole family
had stood together at the gateway.

"'Tis changed, isn't it?" said Philip, quietly, reading my thoughts as
we passed down the garden walk, upon which way of entrance we had
tacitly agreed in preference to the front door. "I can see the big dog
walking ahead of me, and hear the kitten purring in the basket, and
feel little Tom's soft hand, and see at the other side of me--well,
'tis the way of the world, Bert!"

He had the same boyish look; notwithstanding his face was longer and
more careworn, and his hair was a little sprinkled with gray though he
was but thirty-one.

I left him on the rear veranda, when old Noah had opened the hall door
and shouted a hysterical "Lor' bress me!--it's Massa Phil!" after a
moment's blinking inspection to make sure. From the cheered look on
Mr. Faringfield's face that evening, and the revived lustre in Mrs.
Faringfield's eyes, I could guess what wel