tockings ill accorded with his poor shoes, of which the buckles were
of steel. He carried in one hand a large, ancient travelling-bag, so
heavy that it strained his muscles and dragged him down, thus partly
explaining the fatigued look in his face; and in his other hand a
basket, from the open top of which there appeared, thrust out, the
head of a live gray kitten.

This pretty animal's look of strangeness to its surroundings, as it
gazed about with curiosity, would alone have proclaimed that it was
arrived from travel; had not the baggage and appearance of its bearer
told the same story. The boy, also, kept an alert eye forward as he
advanced up the street, but it was soon evident that he gazed in
search of some particular object. This object, as the lad finally
satisfied himself by scanning it and its neighbours twice over, proved
to be the house immediately opposite ours. It was one of a row of
small, old brick residences, with Dutch gable ends toward the street.
Having made sure of its identity, and having reddened a little at the
gaze of Madge and me, the young stranger set down his bag with
perceptible signs of physical relief, and, keeping in his grasp the
basket with the cat, knocked with a seemingly forced boldness--as if
he were conscious of timidity to be overcome--upon the door.

At that, Madge Faringfield could not help laughing aloud.

It was a light, rippling, little laugh, entirely good-natured, lasting
but a moment. But it sufficed to make the boy turn and look at her and
blush again, as if he were hurt but bore no resentment.

Then I, who knew what it was to be wounded by a girl's laugh,
especially Madge's, thought it time to explain, and called out to the
lad:

"There's nobody at home there."

The boy gazed at me at a loss; then, plainly reluctant to believe me,
he once more inspected the blank, closed front of the house, for
denial or confirmation of my word. When he next looked back at me, the
expression of inquiring helplessness and vague alarm on his face, as
if the earth were giving way beneath his feet, was half comical, half
pitiful to see.

"It is Mr. Aitken's house, is it not?" he asked, in a tone low and
civil, though it seemed to betray a rapid beating of the heart after a
sudden sinking thereof.

"It was," I replied, "but he has gone back to England, and that house
is empty."

The lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other way
than in the forlorn expression o