"I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.
"Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madge went on.
"I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay at the tavern."
"Why, then, what will you do?"
"I don't know—yet," the lad answered, looking the picture of loneliness.
"Where do you live?" I put in.
"I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the stage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat."
"And why can't you go back there?" I continued.
"Why, because,—I had just money enough left to pay my way to New York; and even if I should walk back, I've no place there to go back to, and no one at all—now—" He broke off here, his voice faltering; and his blue eyes filled with moisture. But he made a swallow, and checked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.
For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhat abashed at the lad's evident emotion. Madge studied his countenance intently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose little Tom—her younger and favourite brother—in this stranger's place. Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, "Wait here," and turning, ran back across the street, and disappeared through the garden gate.