“If you're in no great hurry to go to New York,” said the pedler, “I should like to have you stay with me for a day or two. I live about twenty-five miles from here, straight ahead, so it will be on your way. I always manage to get home by Saturday night if it is any way possible. It doesn't seem comfortable to be away Sunday. As to-day is Friday, I shall get there to-morrow. So you can lie over a day and rest yourself.”
Paul felt grateful for this unexpected invitation. It lifted quite a load from his mind, since, as the day declined, certain anxious thoughts as to where he should find shelter, had obtruded themselves. Even now, the same trouble would be experienced on Monday night, but it is the characteristic of youth to pay little regard to anticipated difficulties as long as the present is provided for.
It must not be supposed that the pedler neglected his business on account of his companion. On the road he had been traveling the houses were few and far between. He had, therefore, but few calls to make. Paul remarked, however, that when he did call he seldom failed to sell something.
“Yes,” said Mr. Stubbs, on being interrogated, “I make it a p'int to sell something, if it's no more than a tin dipper. I find some hard cases sometimes, and sometimes I have to give it up altogether. I can't quite come up to a friend of mine, Daniel Watson, who used to be in the same line of business. I never knew him to stop at a place without selling something. He had a good deal of judgment, Daniel had, and knew just when to use 'soft sodder,' and when not to. On the road that he traveled there lived a widow woman, who had the reputation of being as ugly, cross-grained a critter as ever lived. People used to say that it was enough to turn milk sour for her even to look at it. Well, it so happened that Daniel had never called there. One night he was boasting that he never called at a house without driving a bargain, when one of the company asked him, with a laugh, if he had ever sold the widow anything.
“Why, no,” said Daniel, “I never called there; but I've no doubt I could.”
“What'll you bet of it?”
“I'm not a betting man,” said Daniel, “but I feel so sure of it that I don't mind risking five dollars.”
“Agreed.”
“The next morning Daniel drove leisurely up to the widow's door and knocked. She had a great aversion to pedlers, and declared they were cheats, every one of them. She was busy sweeping when Daniel knocked. She came to the door in a dreadful hurry, hoping it might be an old widower in the neighborhood that she was trying to catch. When she saw how much she was mistaken she looked as black as a thundercloud.
“Want any tin ware to-day, ma'am?” inquired Daniel, noways discomposed.
“No, sir,” snapped she.
“Got all kinds,—warranted the best in the market. Couldn't I sell you something?”
“Not a single thing,” said she, preparing to shut the door; but Daniel, knowing all would then be lost, stepped in before she could shut it quite to, and began to name over some of the articles he had in his wagon.
“You may talk till doomsday,” said the widow, as mad as could be, “and it won't do a particle of good. Now, you've got your answer, and you'd better leave the house before you are driven out.”
“Brooms, brushes, lamps——”
“Here the widow, who had been trying to keep in her anger, couldn't hold out any longer. She seized the broom she had been sweeping with, and brought it down with a tremendous whack upon Daniel's back. You can imagine how hard it was, when I tell you that the force of the blow snapped the broom in the middle. You might have thought Daniel would resent it, but he didn't appear to notice it, though it must have hurt him awful. He picked up the pieces, and handing them, with a polite bow, to the widow, said, 'Now, ma'am, I'm sure you need a new broom. I've got some capital ones out in the cart.'”
“The widow seemed kind of overpowered by his coolness. She hardly knew what to say or what to think. However, she had broken her old broom, that was certain, and must have a new one; so when Daniel ran out and brought in a bundle of them, she picked out one and paid for it without saying a word; only, when Daniel asked if he might have the pleasure of calling again, she looked a little queer, and told him that if he considered it a pleasure, she had no objection.”
“And did he call again?”
“Yes, whenever he went that way. The widow was always very polite to him after that, and, though she had a mortal dislike to pedlers in general, she was always ready to trade with him. Daniel used to say that he gained his bet and the widow's custom at ONE BLOW.”
They were now descending a little hill at the foot of which stood a country tavern. Here Mr. Stubbs declared his intention of spending the night. He drove into the barn, the large door of which stood invitingly open, and unharnessed his horse, taking especial care to rub him down and set before him an ample supply of provender.
“I always take care of Goliah myself,” said he. “He's a good friend to me, and it's no more than right that I should take good care of him. Now, we'll go into the house, and see what we can get for supper.”
He was surprised to see that Paul hung back, and seemed disinclined to follow.
“What's the matter?” asked Mr. Stubbs, in surprise. “Why don't you come?”
“Because,” said Paul, looking embarrassed, “I've got no money.”
“Well, I have,” said Mr. Stubbs, “and that will answer just as well, so come along, and don't be bashful. I'm about as hungry as a bear, and I guess you are too.”
Before many minutes, Paul sat down to a more bountiful repast than he had partaken of for many a day. There were warm biscuits and fresh butter, such as might please the palate of an epicure, while at the other end of the table was a plate of cake, flanked on one side by an apple-pie, on the other by one of pumpkin, with its rich golden hue, such as is to be found in its perfection, only in New England. It will scarcely be doubted that our hungry travellers did full justice to the fare set before them.
When they had finished, they went into the public room, where were engaged some of the village worthies, intent on discussing the news and the political questions of the day. It was a time of considerable political excitement, and this naturally supplied the topic of conversation. In this the pedler joined, for his frequent travel on this route had made him familiarly acquainted with many of those present.
Paul sat in a corner, trying to feel interested in the conversation; but the day had been a long one, and he had undergone an unusual amount of fatigue. Gradually, his drowsiness increased. The many voices fell upon his ears like a lullaby, and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.
Early next morning they were up and on their way. It was the second morning since Paul's departure. Already a sense of freedom gave his spirits unwonted elasticity, and encouraged him to hope for the best. Had his knowledge of the future been greater, his confidence might have been less. But would he have been any happier?
So many miles separated him from his late home, that he supposed himself quite safe from detection. A slight circumstance warned him that he must still be watchful and cautious.
As they were jogging easily along, they heard the noise of wheels at a little distance. Paul looked up. To his great alarms he recognized in the driver of the approaching vehicle, one of the selectmen of Wrenville.
“What's the matter?” asked his companion, noticing his sudden look of apprehension.
Paul quickly communicated the ground of his alarm.
“And you are afraid he will want to carry you back, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Not a bit of it. We'll circumvent the old fellow, unless he's sharper than I think he is. You've only got to do as I tell you.”
To this Paul quickly agreed.
The selectman was already within a hundred rods. He had not yet apparently noticed the pedler's cart, so that this was in our hero's favor. Mr. Stubbs had already arranged his plan of operations.
“This is what you are to do, Paul,” said he, quickly. “Cock your hat on the side of your head, considerably forward, so that he can't see much of your face. Then here's a cigar to stick in your mouth. You can make believe that you are smoking. If you are the sort of boy I reckon you are, he'll never think it's you.”
Paul instantly adopted this suggestion.
Slipping his hat to one side in the jaunty manner characteristic of young America, he began to puff very gravely at a cigar the pedler handed him, frequently taking it from his mouth, as he had seen older persons do, to knock away the ashes. Nothwithstanding his alarm, his love of fun made him enjoy this little stratagem, in which he bore his part successfully.
The selectman eyed him intently. Paul began to tremble from fear of discovery, but his apprehensions were speedily dissipated by a remark of the new-comer, “My boy, you are forming a very bad habit.”
Paul did not dare to answer lest his voice should betray him. To his relief, the pedler spoke——
“Just what I tell him, sir, but I suppose he thinks he must do as his father does.”
By this time the vehicles had passed each other, and the immediate peril was over.
“Now, Paul,” said his companion, laughing, “I'll trouble you for that cigar, if you have done with it. The old gentleman's advice was good. If I'd never learned to smoke, I wouldn't begin now.”
Our hero was glad to take the cigar from his mouth. The brief time he had held it was sufficient to make him slightly dizzy.
Towards evening they drew up before a small house with a neat yard in front.
“I guess we'll get out here,” said Mr. Stubbs. “There's a gentleman lives here that I feel pretty well acquainted with. Shouldn't wonder if he'd let us stop over Sunday. Whoa, Goliah, glad to get home, hey?” as the horse pricked up his ears and showed manifest signs of satisfaction.
“Now, youngster, follow me, and I guess I can promise you some supper, if Mrs. Stubbs hasn't forgotten her old tricks.”
They passed through the entry into the kitchen, where Mrs. Stubbs was discovered before the fire toasting slices of bread.
“Lor, Jehoshaphat,” said she, “I didn't expect you so soon,” and she looked inquiringly at his companion.
“A young friend who is going to stay with us till Monday,” explained the pedler. “His name is Paul Prescott.”
“I'm glad to see you, Paul,” said Mrs. Stubbs with a friendly smile. “You must be tired if you've been traveling far. Take a seat. Here's a rocking-chair for you.”
This friendly greeting made Paul feel quite at home. Having no children, the pedler and his wife exerted themselves to make the time pass pleasantly to their young acquaintance. Paul could not help contrasting them with Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, not very much to the advantage of the latter. On Sunday he went to church with them, and the peculiar circumstances in which he was placed, made him listen to the sermon with unusual attention. It was an exposition of the text, “My help cometh from the Lord,” and Paul could not help feeling that it was particularly applicable to his own case. It encouraged him to hope, that, however uncertain his prospects appeared, God would help him if he put his trust in Him.
On Monday morning Paul resumed his journey, with an ample stock of provisions supplied by Mrs. Stubbs, in the list of which doughnuts occupied a prominent place; this being at the particular suggestion of Mr. Stubbs.
Forty or fifty miles remained to be traversed before his destination would be reached. The road was not a difficult one to find, and he made it out without much questioning. The first night, he sought permission to sleep in a barn.
He met with a decided refusal.
He was about to turn away in disappointment, when he was called back.
“You are a little too fast, youngster. I said I wouldn't let you sleep in my barn, and I won't; but I've got a spare bed in the house, and if you choose you shall occupy it.”
Under the guise of roughness, this man had a kind heart. He inquired into the particulars of Paul's story, and at the conclusion terrified him by saying that he had been very foolish and ought to be sent back. Nevertheless, when Paul took leave of him the next morning, he did not go away empty-handed.
“If you must be so foolish as to set up for yourself, take this,” said the farmer, placing half a dollar in his hand. “You may reach the city after the banks are closed for the day, you know,” he added, jocularly.
But it was in the morning that Paul came in sight of the city. He climbed up into a high tree, which, having the benefit of an elevated situation, afforded him an extensive prospect. Before him lay the great city of which he had so often heard, teeming with life and activity.
Half in eager anticipation, half in awe and wonder at its vastness, our young pilgrim stood upon the threshold of this great Babel.
Everything looked new and strange. It had never entered Paul's mind, that there could be so many houses in the whole State as now rose up before him. He got into Broadway, and walked on and on thinking that the street must end somewhere. But the farther he walked the thicker the houses seemed crowded together. Every few rods, too, he came to a cross street, which seemed quite as densely peopled as the one on which he was walking. One part of the city was the same as another to Paul, since he was equally a stranger to all. He wandered listlessly along, whither fancy led. His mind was constantly excited by the new and strange objects which met him at every step.
As he was looking in at a shop window, a boy of about his own age, stopped and inquired confidentially, “when did you come from the country?”
“This morning,” said Paul, wondering how a stranger should know that he was a country boy.
“Could you tell me what is the price of potatoes up your way?” asked the other boy, with perfect gravity.
“I don't know,” said Paul, innocently.
“I'm sorry for that,” said the other, “as I have got to buy some for my wife and family.”
Paul stared in surprise for a moment, and then realizing that he was being made game of, began to grow angry.
“You'd better go home to your wife and family,” he said with spirit, “or you may get hurt.”
“Bully for you, country!” answered the other with a laugh. “You're not as green as you look.”
“Thank you,” said Paul, “I wish I could say as much for you.”
Tired with walking, Paul at length sat down in a doorway, and watched with interest the hurrying crowds that passed before him. Everybody seemed to be in a hurry, pressing forward as if life and death depended on his haste. There were lawyers with their sharp, keen glances; merchants with calculating faces; speculators pondering on the chances of a rise or fall in stocks; errand boys with bundles under their arms; business men hurrying to the slip to take the boat for Brooklyn or Jersey City,—all seemed intent on business of some kind, even to the ragged newsboys who had just obtained their supply of evening papers, and were now crying them at the top of their voices,—and very discordant ones at that, so Paul thought. Of the hundreds passing and repassing before him, every one had something to do. Every one had a home to go to. Perhaps it was not altogether strange that a feeling of desolation should come over Paul as he recollected that he stood alone, homeless, friendless, and, it might be, shelterless for the coming night.
“Yet,” thought he with something of hopefulness, “there must be something for me to do as well as the rest.”
Just then a boy some two years older than Paul paced slowly by, and in passing, chanced to fix his eyes upon our hero. He probably saw something in Paul which attracted him, for he stepped up and extending his hand, said, “why, Tom, how came you here?”
“My name isn't Tom,” said Paul, feeling a little puzzled by this address.
“Why, so it isn't. But you look just like my friend, Tom Crocker.”
To this succeeded a few inquiries, which Paul unsuspiciously answered.
“Do you like oysters?” inquired the new-comer, after a while.
“Very much.”
“Because I know of a tip top place to get some, just round the corner. Wouldn't you like some?”
Paul thanked his new acquaintance, and said he would.
Without more ado, his companion ushered him into a basement room near by. He led the way into a curtained recess, and both boys took seats one on each side of a small table.
“Just pull the bell, will you, and tell the waiter we'll have two stews.”
Paul did so.
“I suppose,” continued the other, “the governor wouldn't like it much if he knew where I was.”
“The governor!” repeated Paul. “Why, it isn't against the laws, is it?”
“No,” laughed the other. “I mean my father. How jolly queer you are!” He meant to say green, but had a purpose in not offending Paul.
“Are you the Governor's son?” asked Paul in amazement.
“To be sure,” carelessly replied the other.
Paul's wonder had been excited many times in the course of the day, but this was more surprising than anything which had yet befallen him. That he should have the luck to fall in with the son of the Governor, on his first arrival in the city, and that the latter should prove so affable and condescending, was indeed surprising. Paul inwardly determined to mention it in his first letter to Aunt Lucy. He could imagine her astonishment.
While he was busy with these thoughts, his companion had finished his oysters.
“Most through?” he inquired nonchalantly.
“I've got to step out a minute; wait till I come back.”
Paul unsuspectingly assented.
He heard his companion say a word to the barkeeper, and then go out.
He waited patiently for fifteen minutes and he did not return; another quarter of an hour, and he was still absent. Thinking he might have been unexpectedly detained, he rose to go, but was called back by the barkeeper.
“Hallo, youngster! are you going off without paying?”
“For what?” inquired Paul, in surprise.
“For the oysters, of course. You don't suppose I give 'em away, do you?”
“I thought,” hesitated Paul, “that the one who was with me paid,—the Governor's son,” he added, conscious of a certain pride in his intimacy with one so nearly related to the chief magistrate of the Commonwealth.
“The Governor's son,” laughed the barkeeper. “Why the Governor lives a hundred miles off and more. That wasn't the Governor's son any more than I am.”
“He called his father governor,” said Paul, beginning to be afraid that he had made some ridiculous blunder.
“Well, I wouldn't advise you to trust him again, even if he's the President's son. He only got you in here to pay for his oysters. He told me when he went out that you would pay for them.”
“And didn't he say he was coming back?” asked Paul, quite dumbfounded.
“He said you hadn't quite finished, but would pay for both when you came out. It's two shillings.”
Paul rather ruefully took out the half dollar which constituted his entire stock of money, and tendered it to the barkeeper who returned him the change.
So Paul went out into the streets, with his confidence in human nature somewhat lessened.
Here, then, is our hero with twenty-five cents in his pocket, and his fortune to make.
Although Paul could not help being vexed at having been so cleverly taken in by his late companion, he felt the better for having eaten the oysters. Carefully depositing his only remaining coin in his pocket, he resumed his wanderings. It is said that a hearty meal is a good promoter of cheerfulness. It was so in Paul's case, and although he had as yet had no idea where he should find shelter for the night he did not allow that consideration to trouble him.
So the day passed, and the evening came on. Paul's appetite returned to him once more. He invested one-half of his money at an old woman's stall for cakes and apples, and then he ate leisurely while leaning against the iron railing which encircles the park.
He began to watch with interest the movements of those about him. Already the lamplighter had started on his accustomed round, and with ladder in hand was making his way from one lamp-post to another. Paul quite marvelled at the celerity with which the lamps were lighted, never before having witnessed the use of gas. He was so much interested in the process that he sauntered along behind the lamplighter for some time. At length his eye fell upon a group common enough in our cities, but new to him.
An Italian, short and dark-featured, with a velvet cap, was grinding out music from a hand-organ, while a woman with a complexion equally dark, and black sorrowful-looking eyes, accompanied her husband on the tambourine. They were playing a lively tune as Paul came up, but quickly glided into “Home, Sweet Home.”
Paul listened with pleased, yet sad interest, for him “home” was only a sad remembrance.
He wandered on, pausing now and then to look into one of the brilliantly illuminated shop windows, or catching a glimpse through the open doors of the gay scene within, and as one after another of these lively scenes passed before him, he began to think that all the strange and wonderful things in the world must be collected in these rich stores.
Next, he came to a place of public amusement. Crowds were entering constantly, and Paul, from curiosity, entered too. He passed on to a little wicket, when a man stopped him.
“Where's your ticket?” he asked.
“I haven't got any,” said Paul.
“Then what business have you here?” said the man, roughly.
“Isn't this a meeting-house?” asked Paul.
This remark seemed to amuse two boys who were standing by. Looking up with some indignation, Paul recognized in one of them the boy who had cheated him out of the oysters.
“Look here,” said Paul, “what made you go off and leave me to pay for the oysters this morning?”
“Which of us do you mean?” inquired the 'governor's son,' carelessly.
“I mean you.”
“Really, I don't understand your meaning. Perhaps you mistake me for somebody else.”
“What?” said Paul, in great astonishment. “Don't you remember me, and how you told me you were the Governor's son?”
Both boys laughed.
“You must be mistaken. I haven't the honor of being related to the distinguished gentleman you name.”
The speaker made a mocking bow to Paul.
“I know that,” said Paul, with spirit, “but you said you were, for all that.”
“It must have been some other good-looking boy, that you are mistaking me for. What are you going to do about it? I hope, by the way, that the oysters agreed with you.”
“Yes, they did,” said Paul, “for I came honestly by them.”
“He's got you there, Gerald,” said the other boy.
Paul made his way out of the theater. As his funds were reduced to twelve cents, he could not have purchased a ticket if he had desired it.
Still he moved on.
Soon he came to another building, which was in like manner lighted up, but not so brilliantly as the theater. This time, from the appearance of the building, and from the tall steeple,—so tall that his eye could scarcely reach the tapering spire,—he knew that it must be a church. There was not such a crowd gathered about the door as at the place he had just left, but he saw a few persons entering, and he joined them. The interior of the church was far more gorgeous than the plain village meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend with his mother. He gazed about him with a feeling of awe, and sank quietly into a back pew. As it was a week-day evening, and nothing of unusual interest was anticipated, there were but few present, here and there one, scattered through the capacious edifice.
By-and-by the organist commenced playing, and a flood of music, grander and more solemn than he had ever heard, filled the whole edifice. He listened with rapt attention and suspended breath till the last note died away, and then sank back upon the richly cushioned seat with a feeling of enjoyment.
In the services which followed he was not so much interested. The officiating clergyman delivered a long homily in a dull unimpassioned manner, which failed to awaken his interest. Already disposed to be drowsy, it acted upon him like a gentle soporific. He tried to pay attention as he had always been used to do, but owing to his occupying a back seat, and the low voice of the preacher, but few words reached him, and those for the most part were above his comprehension.
Gradually the feeling of fatigue—for he had been walking the streets all day—became so powerful that his struggles to keep awake became harder and harder. In vain he sat erect, resolved not to yield. The moment afterwards his head inclined to one side; the lights began to swim before his eyes; the voice of the preacher subsided into a low and undistinguishable hum. Paul's head sank upon the cushion, his bundle, which had been his constant companion during the day, fell softly to the floor, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Meanwhile the sermon came to a close, and another hymn was sung, but even the music was insufficient to wake our hero now. So the benediction was pronounced, and the people opened the doors of their pews and left the church.
Last of all the sexton walked up and down the aisles, closing such of the pew doors as were open. Then he shut off the gas, and after looking around to see that nothing was forgotten, went out, apparently satisfied, and locked the outer door behind him.
Paul, meanwhile, wholly unconscious of his situation, slept on as tranquilly as if there were nothing unusual in the circumstances in which he was placed. Through the stained windows the softened light fell upon his tranquil countenance, on which a smile played, as if his dreams were pleasant. What would Aunt Lucy have thought if she could have seen her young friend at this moment?
Notwithstanding his singular bedchamber, Paul had a refreshing night's sleep from which he did not awake till the sun had fairly risen, and its rays colored by the medium through which they were reflected, streamed in at the windows and rested in many fantastic lines on the richly carved pulpit and luxurious pews.
Paul sprang to his feet and looked around him in bewilderment.
“Where am I?” he exclaimed in astonishment.
In the momentary confusion of ideas which is apt to follow a sudden awakening, he could not remember where he was, or how he chanced to be there. But in a moment memory came to his aid, and he recalled the events of the preceding day, and saw that he must have been locked up in the church.
“How am I going to get out?” Paul asked himself in dismay.
This was the important question just now. He remembered that the village meeting-house which he had been accustomed to attend was rarely opened except on Sundays. What if this should be the case here? It was Thursday morning, and three days must elapse before his release. This would never do. He must seek some earlier mode of deliverance.
He went first to the windows, but found them so secured that it was impossible for him to get them open. He tried the doors, but found, as he had anticipated, that they were fast. His last resource failing, he was at liberty to follow the dictates of his curiosity.
Finding a small door partly open, he peeped within, and found a flight of steep stairs rising before him. They wound round and round, and seemed almost interminable. At length, after he had become almost weary of ascending, he came to a small window, out of which he looked. At his feet lay the numberless roofs of the city, while not far away his eye rested on thousands of masts. The river sparkled in the sun, and Paul, in spite of his concern, could not help enjoying the scene. The sound of horses and carriages moving along the great thoroughfare below came confusedly to his ears. He leaned forward to look down, but the distance was so much greater than he had thought, that he drew back in alarm.
“What shall I do?” Paul asked himself, rather frightened. “I wonder if I can stand going without food for three days? I suppose nobody would hear me if I should scream as loud as I could.”
Paul shouted, but there was so much noise in the streets that nobody probably heard him.
He descended the staircase, and once more found himself in the body of the church. He went up into the pulpit, but there seemed no hope of escape in that direction. There was a door leading out on one side, but this only led to a little room into which the minister retired before service.
It seemed rather odd to Paul to find himself the sole occupant of so large a building. He began to wonder whether it would not have been better for him to stay in the poorhouse, than come to New York to die of starvation.
Just at this moment Paul heard a key rattle in the outer door. Filled with new hope, he ran down the pulpit stairs and out into the porch, just in time to see the entrance of the sexton.
The sexton started in surprise as his eye fell upon Paul standing before him, with his bundle under his arm.
“Where did you come from, and how came you here?” he asked with some suspicion.
“I came in last night, and fell asleep.”
“So you passed the night here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What made you come in at all?” inquired the sexton, who knew enough of boys to be curious upon this point.
“I didn't know where else to go,” said Paul.
“Where do you live?”
Paul answered with perfect truth, “I don't live anywhere.”
“What! Have you no home?” asked the sexton in surprise.
Paul shook his head.
“Where should you have slept if you hadn't come in here?”
“I don't know, I'm sure.”
“And I suppose you don't know where you shall sleep to-night?”
Paul signified that he did not.
“I knew there were plenty of such cases,” said the sexton, meditatively; “but I never seemed to realize it before.”
“How long have you been in New York?” was his next inquiry.
“Not very long,” said Paul. “I only got here yesterday.”
“Then you don't know anybody in the city?”
“No.”
“Why did you come here, then?”
“Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I thought I might find something to do here.”
“But suppose you shouldn't find anything to do?”
“I don't know,” said Paul, slowly. “I haven't thought much about that.”
“Well, my lad,” said the sexton, not unkindly, “I can't say your prospects look very bright. You should have good reasons for entering on such an undertaking. I—I don't think you are a bad boy. You don't look like a bad one,” he added, half to himself.
“I hope not, sir,” said Paul.
“I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you.”
Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.
“What is your name?” inquired the sexton.
“Paul Prescott.”
“That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?”
“Only twelve cents.”
“Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor.”
“But I can work,” said Paul, spiritedly. “I ought to be able to earn my living.”
“Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man, with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain air of benevolence which softened their expression.
As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which is already known to the reader. The sexton said little except in the way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the conclusion he said, “Must tell Hester.”
At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the sexton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the word.
“Sit here a moment,” said the sexton, pointing to a chair, “I'll go and speak to Hester.”
Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of “The Pilgrim's Progress,” which lay on the table.
In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the sexton's wife, for such she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.
“Home so soon?” said Hester inquiringly, as her husband opened the door.
“Yes, Hester, and I have brought company with me,” said the sexton.
“Company!” repeated his wife. “Who is it?”
“It is a poor boy, who was accidentally locked up in the church last night.”
“And he had to stay there all night?”
“Yes; but perhaps it was lucky for him, for he had no other place to sleep, and not money enough to pay for one.”
“Poor child!” said Hester, compassionately. “Is it not terrible to think that any human creature should be without the comforts of a home which even our tabby possesses. It ought to make you thankful that you are so well cared for, Tab.”
The cat opened her eyes and winked drowsily at her mistress.
“So you brought the poor boy home, Hugh?”
“Yes, Hester,—I thought we ought not to begrudge a meal to one less favored by fortune than ourselves. You know we should consider ourselves the almoners of God's bounties.”
“Surely, Hugh.”
“I knew you would feel so, Hester. And suppose we have the chicken for dinner that I sent in the morning. I begin to have a famous appetite. I think I should enjoy it.”
Hester knew perfectly well that it was for Paul's sake, and not for his own, that her husband spoke. But she so far entered into his feelings, that she determined to expend her utmost skill as cook upon the dinner, that Paul might have at least one good meal.
“Now I will bring the boy in,” said he. “I am obliged to go to work, but you will find some way to entertain him, I dare say.”
“If you will come out (this he said to Paul), I will introduce you to a new friend.”
Paul was kindly welcomed by the sexton's wife, who questioned him in a sympathizing tone about his enforced stay in the church. To all her questions Paul answered in a modest yet manly fashion, so as to produce a decidedly favorable impression upon his entertainer.
Our hero was a handsome boy. Just at present he was somewhat thin, not having entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness and poor fare while a member of Mr. Mudge's family; but he was well made, and bade fair to become a stout boy. His manner was free and unembarrassed, and he carried a letter of recommendation in his face. It must be admitted, however that there were two points in which his appearance might have been improved. Both his hands and face had suffered from the dust of travel. His clothes, too, were full of dust.
A single glance told Hester all this, and she resolved to remedy it.
She quietly got some water and a towel, and requested Paul to pull off his jacket, which she dusted while he was performing his ablutions. Then, with the help of a comb to arrange his disordered hair, he seemed quite like a new boy, and felt quite refreshed by the operation.
“Really, it improves him very much,” said Hester to herself.
She couldn't help recalling a boy of her own,—the only child she ever had,—who had been accidentally drowned when about the age of Paul.
“If he had only lived,” she thought, “how different might have been our lives.”
A thought came into her mind, and she looked earnestly at Paul.
“I—yes I will speak to Hugh about it,” she said, speaking aloud, unconsciously.
“Did you speak to me?” asked Paul.
“No,—I was thinking of something.”
She observed that Paul was looking rather wistfully at a loaf of bread on the table.
“Don't you feel hungry?” she asked, kindly.
“I dare say you have had no breakfast.”
“I have eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon.”
“Bless my soul! How hungry you must be!” said the good woman, as she bustled about to get a plate of butter and a knife.
She must have been convinced of it by the rapid manner in which the slices of bread and butter disappeared.
At one o'clock the sexton came home. Dinner was laid, and Paul partook of it with an appetite little affected by his lunch of the morning. As he rose from the table, he took his cap, and saying, “Good-by, I thank you very much for your kindness!” he was about to depart.
“Where are you going?” asked the sexton, in surprise.
“I don't know,” answered Paul.
“Stop a minute. Hester, I want to speak to you.”
They went into the sitting-room together.
“This boy, Hester,” he commenced with hesitation.
“Well, Hugh?”
“He has no home.”
“It is a hard lot.”
“Do you think we should be the worse off if we offered to share our home with him?”
“It is like your kind heart, Hugh. Let us go and tell him.”
“We have been talking of you, Paul,” said the sexton. “We have thought, Hester and myself, that as you had no home and we no child, we should all be the gainers by your staying with us. Do you consent?”
“Consent!” echoed Paul in joyful surprise. “How can I ever repay your kindness?”
“If you are the boy we take you for, we shall feel abundantly repaid. Hester, we can give Paul the little bedroom where—where John used to sleep.”
His voice faltered a little, for John was the name of his boy, who had been drowned.