ed, indeed,
that Madge had not told her mother of his resolve, for, from that
lady's not seeking him at once, he knew that she was still unaware of
it. He little guessed that 'twas the girl's own power over him she
wished to test, and that she would not enlist her mother's persuasions
but as a last resource.

"I don't know," she replied carelessly.

"I shall look for them," said Philip, and turned to go down-stairs
again.

But (though how could a boy imagine it?) Miss Faringfield would not
have it that his yielding should be due to her mother, if it could be
achieved as a victory for herself. So she stopped him with a sudden
tremulous "Oh, Phil!" and, raising her forearm to the door-post, hid
her face against it, and wept as if her heart would break.

Philip had never before known her to shed a tear, and this new
spectacle, in a second's time, took all the firmness out of him.

"Why, Madge, I didn't know--don't cry, Madgie--"

She turned swiftly, without looking up, and her face, still in a
shower of tears, found hiding no longer against the door-post, but
against Phil's breast.

"Don't cry, Madgie dear,--I sha'n't go!"

She raised her wet face, joy sparkling where the lines had not yet
lost the shape of grief; and Phil never thought to ask himself how
much of her pleasure was for his not going, and how much for the
evidence given of her feminine power. He had presently another thing
to consider, a not very palatable dose to swallow--the returning to
the warehouse and telling Mr. Faringfield of his change of mind. He
did this awkwardly enough, no doubt, but manfully enough, I'll take my
oath, though he always said he felt never so tamed and small and
ludicrous in his life, before or after.

And that scene upon the landing is the last picture, but one, I have
to present of childhood days, ere I hasten, over the period that
brought us all into our twenties and to strange, eventful times. The
one remaining sketch is of an unkempt, bedraggled figure that I saw at
the back hall door of the Faringfields one snowy night a week later,
when, for some reason or other, I was out late in our back garden.
This person, instead of knocking at the door, very cautiously tried it
to see if it would open, and, finding it locked, stood timidly back
and gazed at it in a quandary. Suspecting mischief, I went to the
paling fence that separated our ground from the Faringfields', and
called out, "Who's that?"

"Hallo, Bert!" came