Paul Prescotts Charge | Page 7

him.
"How are you, Paul?"
"Pretty well, Ben."
"How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the
time."
"Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would

ever get any better."
"How is he this morning?"
"Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I
went out."
"I brought over something for you," said Ben, tugging away at his
pocket.
Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.
"I found 'em in the closet," he said.
"Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?"
"Then I don't know as I ought to take them," said Paul, though, to tell
the truth, they looked tempting to him.
"O, nonsense," said Ben; "they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes
to scold a little; it does her good."
The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the
turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.
"Ain't they prime?" he said.
"First rate," said Paul; `won't you have one?"
"No," said Ben; "you see I thought while I was about it I might as well
take four, so I ate two coming along."
In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father.
He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at
him more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's
face which terrified him.
Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.

Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, "Father's dead!"
Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a
warm heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck,
gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the
grief-stricken heart.

III.
PAUL'S BRILLIANT PROSPECTS.
Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.
Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father
and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the world.
No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly
occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away
from the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his
way back again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.
As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was
a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!
Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire
Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.
"Paul," said the Squire, with measured deliberation.
"Do you mean me, sir?" asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name
had been called.
"Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?" demanded the
Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.
"Paul," pursued Squire Newcome, "have you thought of your future
destination?"

"No, sir," said Paul, "I suppose I shall live here."
"That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose
you are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods."
"I know he was poor."
"Therefore it has been thought best that you should be placed in charge
of a worthy man, who I see is now approaching the house. You will
therefore accompany him without resistance. If you obey him and read
the Bible regularly, you will--ahem!--you will some time or other see
the advantage of it."
With this consolatory remark Squire Newcome wheeled about and
strode out of the house.
Immediately afterwards there entered a rough-looking man arrayed in a
farmer's blue frock.
"You're to come with me, youngster," said Mr. Nicholas Mudge, for
that was his name.
"With you?" said Paul, recoiling instinctively.
In fact there was nothing attractive in the appearance or manners of Mr.
Mudge. He had a coarse hard face, while his head was surmounted by a
shock of red hair, which to all appearance had suffered little
interference from the comb for a time which the observer would
scarcely venture to compute. There was such an utter absence of
refinement about the man, that Paul, who had been accustomed to the
gentle manners of his father, was repelled by the contrast which this
man exhibited.
"To be sure you're to go with me," said Mr. Mudge. "You did not
calc'late you was a goin' to stay here by yourself, did you? We've got a
better place for you than that. But the wagon's waitin' outside, so just be
lively and bundle in, and I'll carry you to where you're a goin' to live."

"Where's that?"
"Wal, some folks call it the Poor House, but it ain't any the worse for
that, I expect. Anyhow, them as has