"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?"