As the child clung to him, shouting with gladness, Philip, unheeding his playmate, called aloud and imperiously to the stranger—
“What are you gaping at? Why do you stand watching us?”
The man muttered something, moved on, and disappeared. “I hope there are no thieves here! I am so much afraid of thieves,” said Sidney, tremulously.
The fear grated on Philip’s heart. Had he not himself, perhaps, been judged and treated as a thief? He said nothing, but drew his brother within; and there, in their little room, by the one poor candle, it was touching and beautiful to see these boys—the tender patience of the elder lending itself to every whim of the younger—now building houses with cards—now telling stories of fairy and knight-errant—the sprightliest he could remember or invent. At length, as all was over, and Sidney was undressing for the night, Philip, standing apart, said to him, in a mournful voice:—
“Are you sad now, Sidney?”
“No! not when you are with me—but that is so seldom.”
“Do you read none of the story-books I bought for you?”
“Sometimes! but one can’t read all day.”
“Ah! Sidney, if ever we should part, perhaps you will love me no longer!”
“Don’t say so,” said Sidney. “But we sha’n’t part, Philip?”