Something, unfortunately, did happen.

The next day Mr. Danforth was counting a roll of bills which had been just paid in, when he was unexpectedly called out of the counting-room. He unguardedly left the bills upon his own desk. Dawkins saw them lying there. The thought flashed upon him, "There lies what will relieve me from all my embarrassment."

Allowing himself scarcely a minute to think, he took from the roll four fifty dollar notes, thrust one into the pocket of Paul's overcoat, which hung up in the office, drew off his right boot and slipped the other three into the bottom of it, and put it on again. He then nervously resumed his place at his desk. A moment afterwards, Paul, who had been to the post-office, entered with letters which he carried into the inner office and deposited on Mr. Danforth's desk. He observed the roll of bills, and thought his employer careless in leaving so much money exposed, but said nothing on the subject to Dawkins, between whom and himself there was little communication.



XXXI.

CONVICTED OF THEFT.

Half an hour later Mr. Danforth returned.

"Has any one been here?" he asked as he passed through the outer office.

"No, sir," said Dawkins, with outward composure though his heart was beating rapidly.

While apparently intent upon his writing he listened attentively to what might be going on in the next room. One,—two,—three minutes passed. Mr. Danforth again showed himself.

"Did you say that no one has been here?" he demanded, abruptly.

"No, sir."

"Have either of you been into my office since I have been out?"

"I have not, sir," said Dawkins.

"I went in to carry your letters," said Paul.

"Did you see a roll of bills lying on my desk?"

"Yes, sir," said Paul, a little surprised at the question.

"I have just counted it over, and find but six hundred dollars instead of eight hundred. Can you account for the discrepancy?"

Mr. Danforth looked keenly at the two boys. Dawkins, who had schooled himself to the ordeal, maintained his outward calmness. Paul, beginning to perceive that his honesty was called in question, flushed.

"No, sir," said the boys simultaneously.

"It can hardly be possible, that Mr. Thompson, who is a very careful man, should have made such a mistake in paying me," resumed Mr. Danforth.

"As we have been the only persons here," said Dawkins, "the only way to vindicate ourselves from suspicion is, to submit to a search."

"Yes, sir," said Paul promptly.

Both boys turned their pockets inside out, but the missing money was not found.

"There is my overcoat, sir," said Dawkins, "will you be kind enough to search it for yourself?"

Next, of course, Paul's overcoat was searched.

What was our hero's dismay when from one of the pockets Mr. Danforth produced a fifty dollar bill.

"Is it possible?" he exclaimed in as much grief as surprise, "Unhappy boy, how came you by this money in your pocket?"

"I don't know, sir," returned Paul, his cheek alternately flushing and growing pale.

"I wish I could believe you," said Mr. Danforth; "where have you put the other bills? Produce them, and I may overlook this first offense."

"Indeed, sir," said Paul, in great distress, "I have not the slightest knowledge of how this bill came into my pocket. I hope you will believe me, sir."

"How can I? The money evidently did not go into your pocket without hands."

A sudden thought came to Paul. "Dawkins," said he, "did you put that money into my pocket?"

"What do you mean, sir?" returned Dawkins, haughtily. "Is it your intention to insult me?"

Dawkins could not prevent his face from flushing as he spoke, but this might easily be referred to a natural resentment of the imputation cast upon him.

"Paul," said his employer, coldly, "you will not help your own cause by seeking to involve another. After what has happened you can hardly expect me to retain you in my employment. I will not make public your disgrace, nor will I inquire farther for the remainder of the money for which you have been willing to barter your integrity. I will pay your wages up to the end of this week, and——"

"Mr. Danforth," said Paul, manfully, though the tears almost choked his utterance, "I am sorry that you have no better opinion of me. I do not want the balance of my wages. If I have taken so large a sum which did not belong to me, I have no claim to them. Good-morning, sir. Sometime I hope you will think better of me."

Paul put on his coat, and taking his cap from the nail on which it hung, bowed respectfully to his employer and left the office.

Mr. Danforth looked after him, and seemed perplexed. Could Paul be guilty after all?

"I never could have suspected him if I had not this evidence in my hand," said Mr. Danforth, to himself, fixing his eyes upon the bill which he had drawn from Paul's overcoat.

"Dawkins, did you observe whether Paul remained long in the office?" he asked.

"Longer than sufficient to lay the letters on the desk?"

"Yes, sir, I think he did."

"Did you notice whether he went to his overcoat after coming out?"

"Yes, sir, he did," said Dawkins, anxious to fix in Mr. Danforth's mind the impression of Paul's guilt.

"Then I am afraid it is true," said his employer sadly. "And yet, what a fine, manly boy he is too. But it is a terrible fault."

Mr. Danforth was essentially a kind-hearted man, and he cared much more for Paul's dereliction from honesty than for the loss of the money. Going home early to dinner, he communicated to his wife the unpleasant discovery which he had made respecting Paul.

Now, from the first, Paul had been a great favorite with Mrs. Danforth, and she scouted at the idea of his dishonesty.

"Depend upon it, Mr. Danforth," she said decisively, "you have done the boy an injustice. I have some skill in reading faces, and I tell you that a boy with Paul Prescott's open, frank expression is incapable of such a crime."

"So I should have said, my dear, but we men learn to be less trustful than you ladies, who stay at home and take rose-colored views of life. Unfortunately, we see too much of the dark side of human nature."

"So that you conclude all to be dark."

"Not so bad as that."

"Tell me all the circumstances, and perhaps a woman's wit may help you."

Mr. Danforth communicated all the details, with which the reader is already familiar.

"What sort of a boy is this Dawkins?" she asked, "Do you like him?"

"Not particularly. He does his duties passably well. I took him into my counting-room to oblige his father."

"Perhaps he is the thief."

"To tell the truth I would sooner have suspected him."

"Has he cleared himself from suspicion?"

"He was the first to suggest a search."

"Precisely the thing he would have done, if he had placed the bill in Paul's pocket. Of course he would know that the search must result favorably for him."

"There is something in that."

"Besides, what could have been more foolish, if Paul wished to hide the money, than to multiply his chances of detection by hiding it in two different places, especially where one was so obvious as to afford no concealment at all."

"Admitting this to be true, how am I to arrive at the proof of Paul's innocence?"

"My own opinion is, that George Dawkins has the greater part of the money stolen. Probably he has taken it for some particular purpose. What it is, you may learn, perhaps, by watching him."

"I will be guided by your suggestion. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than to find that I have been mistaken in assuming Paul's guilt, though on evidence that seemed convincing."

This conversation took place at the dinner-table. Mr. Danforth understood that no time was to be lost if he expected to gain any information from the movements of his clerk.

George Dawkins had ventured upon a bold act, but he had been apparently favored by fortune, and had succeeded. That he should have committed this crime without compunction could hardly be expected. His uneasiness, however, sprang chiefly from the fear that in some way he might yet be detected. He resolved to get rid of the money which he had obtained dishonestly, and obtain back from Duval the acknowledgment of indebtedness which he had given him.

You will perhaps ask whether the wrong which he had done Paul affected him with uneasiness. On the contrary, it gratified the dislike which from the first he had cherished towards our hero.

"I am well rid of him, at all events," he muttered to himself, "that is worth risking some thing for."

When office hours were over Dawkins gladly threw down his pen, and left the counting-room.

He bent his steps rapidly towards the locality where he had before met Duval. He had decided to wait some time before meeting that worthy. He had to wait till another day, when as he was emerging from the tavern he encountered the Frenchman on the threshold.

"Aha, my good friend," said Duval, offering his hand, which Dawkins did not appear to see, "I am very glad to see you. Will you come in?"

"No, I have not time," said Dawkins, shortly.

"Have you brought me my money?"

"Yes."

"Aha, that is well. I was just about what you call cleaned out."

"Have you my note with you?"

Duval fumbled in his pocket-book, and finally produced the desired document.

"Give it to me."

"I must have the money first," said the Frenchman, shrewdly.

"Take it," said Dawkins contemptuously. "Do you judge me by yourself?"

He tore the note which he received into small pieces, and left Duval without another word.

Sheltered by the darkness, Mr. Danforth, who had tracked the steps of Dawkins, had been an unseen witness of this whole transaction.



XXXII.

RIGHT TRIUMPHANT.

George Dawkins resumed his duties the next morning as usual. Notwithstanding the crime he had committed to screen himself from the consequences of a lighter fault, he felt immeasurably relieved at the thought that he had shaken himself free from the clutches of Duval. His satisfaction was heightened by the disgrace and summary dismissal of Paul, whom he had never liked. He decided to ask the place for a cousin of his own, whose society would be more agreeable to him than that of his late associate.

"Good-morning, sir," he said, as Mr. Danforth entered.

"Good-morning," returned his employer, coldly.

"Have you selected any one in Prescott's place, yet, sir?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I have a cousin, Malcolm Harcourt, who would be glad to take it."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Danforth, whose manner somewhat puzzled Dawkins.

"I should enjoy having him with me," continued Dawkins.

"Did you like Prescott?"

"No, sir," said Dawkins, promptly, "I didn't want to say so before, but now, since he's turned out so badly, I don't mind saying that I never thought much of him."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Danforth, "I liked him from the first. Perhaps we are wrong in thinking that he took the money."

"I should think there could be no doubt of it," said Dawkins, not liking the sympathy and returning good feeling for Paul which his employer manifested.

"I don't agree with you," said Mr. Danforth, coldly. "I have decided to reinstate Paul in his former place."

"Then, if any more money is missing, you will know where it has gone," said Dawkins, hastily.

"I shall."

"Then there is no chance for my cousin?"

"I am expecting to have a vacancy."

Dawkins looked up in surprise.

"I shall require some one to fill YOUR place," said Mr. Danforth, significantly.

"Sir!" exclaimed Dawkins, in astonishment and dismay.

His employer bent a searching glance upon him as he asked, sternly, "where did you obtain the money which you paid away last evening?"

"I—don't—understand—you, sir," gasped Dawkins, who understood only too well.

"You met a man at the door of a low tavern in—Street, last evening, to whom you paid one hundred and fifty dollars, precisely the sum which I lost yesterday."

"Who has been slandering me, sir?" asked Dawkins, very pale.

"An eye-witness of the meeting, who heard the conversation between you. If you want more satisfactory proof, here it is."

Mr. Danforth took from his pocket-book the torn fragments of the note which Dawkins had given to Duval.

"Here is an obligation to pay a certain Duval the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. It bears your signature. How you could have incurred such a debt to him you best know."

Dawkins maintained a sullen silence.

"I suppose you wish me to leave your employment," he said at length.

"You are right. Hold," he added, as Dawkins was about leaving the room, "a word more. It is only just that you should make a restitution of the sum which you have taken. If you belonged to a poor family and there were extenuating circumstances, I might forego my claim. But your father is abundantly able to make good the loss, and I shall require you to lay the matter before him without loss of time. In consideration of your youth, I shall not bring the matter before the public tribunals, as I have a right to do."

Dawkins turned pale at this allusion, and muttering some words to the effect that he would do what he could, left the counting-room.

This threat proved not to be without its effect. The next day he came to Mr. Danforth and brought the sum for which he had become responsible. He had represented to his father that he had had his pocket picked of this sum belonging to Mr. Danforth, and in that manner obtained an equal amount to replace it. It was some time before Mr. Dawkins learned the truth. Then came a storm of reproaches in which all the bitterness of his father's nature was fully exhibited. There had never been much love between father and son. Henceforth there was open hatred.

We must return to Paul, whom we left in much trouble.

It was a sad walk which he took homeward on the morning of his dismissal.

"What brings you home so early?" asked Mrs. Cameron, looking up from her baking, as Paul entered.

Paul tried to explain, but tears came to his eyes, and sobs choked his utterance.

"Are you sick, Paul?" exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, in alarm.

"No, Aunt Hester."

"Then what is the matter?" she asked anxiously.

"I have lost my place."

"Poor boy! I am very sorry to hear it. But it might have been worse."

"No, not very well, Aunt Hester, for Mr. Danforth thinks I have taken some of his money."

"He is very unjust!" exclaimed Aunt Hester, indignantly, "he ought to have known better than to think you would steal."

"Why, no," said Paul, candidly, "I must confess the evidence was against me, and he doesn't know me as well as you do, Aunt Hester."

"Tell me all about it, Paul."

Aunt Hester sat down and listened attentively to our hero's story.

"How do you account for the money being found in your pocket?" she asked at length.

"I think it must have been put there by some one else."

"Have you any suspicions?"

"Yes," said Paul, a little reluctantly, "but I don't know whether I ought to have. I may be wronging an innocent person."

"At any rate it won't do any harm to tell me."

"You've heard me speak of George Dawkins?"

"Yes."

"I can't help thinking that he put the fifty dollars into my pocket, and took the rest himself."

"How very wicked he must be!" exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, indignantly.

"Don't judge him too hastily; Aunt Hester, he may not be guilty, and I know from my own experience how hard it is to be accused when you are innocent."

Soon after the sexton came in, and Paul of course, told his story over again.

"Never mind, Paul," said Uncle Hugh, cheerily. "You know your own innocence; that is the main thing. It's a great thing to have a clear conscience."

"But I liked Mr. Danforth and I think he liked me. It's hard to feel that he and Mrs. Danforth will both think me guilty, especially after the kindness which I have experienced from them."

"We all have our crosses, my boy,—some light and others heavy. Yours, I admit is a heavy one for a boy to bear. But when men are unjust there is One above who will deal justly with us. You have not forgotten him."

"No, Uncle Hugh," said Paul, reverently.

"Trust in him, Paul, and all will come out right at last. He can prove your innocence, and you may be sure he will, in his own good time. Only be patient, Paul."

"I will try to be, Uncle Hugh."

The simple, hearty trust in God, which the sexton manifested, was not lost upon Paul. Sustained by his own consciousness of innocence, and the confidence reposed in him by those who knew him best, his mind soon regained its cheerful tone. He felt an inward conviction that God would vindicate his innocence.

His vindication came sooner than he anticipated.

The next day as the sexton's family were seated at their plain dinner, a knock was heard upon the outer door.

"Sit still, Hester," said Mr. Cameron. "I will go to the door."

Opening the door he recognized Mr. Danforth, who attended the same church.

"Mr. Cameron, I believe," said Mr. Danforth, pleasantly.

"Yes, sir."

"May I come in? I am here on a little business."

"Certainly, Mr. Danforth. Excuse my not inviting you before; but in my surprise at seeing you, I forgot my politeness."

The sexton led the way into the plain sitting-room.

"I believe Paul Prescott is an inmate of your family."

"Yes, sir. I am sorry——"

"I know what you would say, sir; but it is needless. May I see Paul a moment?"

Paul was surprised at the summons, and still more surprised at finding who it was that wished to see him.

He entered the room slowly, uncertain how to accost Mr. Danforth. His employer solved the doubt in his mind by advancing cordially, and taking his hand.

"Paul," he said pleasantly, "I have come here to ask your forgiveness for an injustice, and to beg you to resume your place in my counting-room."

"Have you found out who took the money, sir?" asked Paul, eagerly.

"Yes."

"Who was it, sir?"

"It was Dawkins."

Mr. Danforth explained how he had become acquainted with the real thief. In conclusion, he said, "I shall expect you back to-morrow morning, Paul."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dawkins of course leaves my employ. You will take his place, and receive his salary, seven dollars a week instead of five. Have you any friend whom you would like to have in your own place?"

Paul reflected a moment and finally named a schoolmate of his, the son of poor parents, whom he knew to be anxiously seeking a situation, but without influential friends to help him.

"I will take him on your recommendation," said Mr. Danforth, promptly. "Can you see him this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir," said Paul.

The next day Paul resumed his place in Mr. Danforth's counting-room.



XXXIII.

PAUL REDEEMS HIS PLEDGE.

Two years passed, unmarked by any incident of importance. Paul continued in Mr. Danforth's employment, giving, if possible, increased satisfaction. He was not only faithful, but exhibited a rare aptitude for business, which made his services of great value to his employer. From time to time Mr. Danforth increased his salary, so that, though only nineteen, he was now receiving twelve dollars per week, with the prospect of a speedy increase. But with his increasing salary, he did not increase his expenses. He continued as economical as ever. He had not forgotten his father's dying injunction. He remained true to the charge which he had taken upon himself, that of redeeming his father's memory from reproach. This, at times subjected him to the imputation of meanness, but for this he cared little. He would not swerve from the line of duty which he had marked out.

One evening as he was walking down Broadway with an acquaintance, Edward Hastings, who was employed in a counting-room near him, they paused before a transparency in front of a hall brilliantly lighted.

"The Hutchinsons are going to sing to-night, Paul," said Hastings. "Did you ever hear them?"

"No; but I have often wished to."

"Then suppose we go in."

"No, I believe not."

"Why not. Paul? It seems to me you never go anywhere. You ought to amuse yourself now and then."

"Some other time I will,—not now."

"You are not required to be at home in the evening, are you?"

"No."

"Then why not come in now? It's only twenty-five cents."

"To tell the truth, Ned, I am saving up my money for a particular purpose; and until that is accomplished, I avoid all unnecessary expense."

"Going to invest in a house in Fifth Avenue? When you do, I'll call. However, never mind the expense. I'll pay you in."

"I'm much obliged to you, Ned, but I can't accept."

"Why not?"

"Because at present I can't afford to return the favor."

"Never mind that."

"But I do mind it. By-and-by I shall feel more free. Good-night, if you are going in."

"Good-night, Paul."

"He's a strange fellow," mused Hastings.

"It's impossible to think him mean, and yet, it looks a great deal like it. He spends nothing for dress or amusements. I do believe that I've had three coats since he's been wearing that old brown one. Yet, he always looks neat. I wonder what he's saving up his money for."

Meanwhile Paul went home.

The sexton and his wife looked the same as ever. Paul sometimes fancied that Uncle Hugh stooped a little more than he used to do; but his life moved on so placidly and evenly, that he grew old but slowly. Aunt Hester was the same good, kind, benevolent friend that she had always been. No mother could have been more devoted to Paul. He felt that he had much to be grateful for, in his chance meeting with this worthy couple.

It was the first of January,—a clear, cold day. A pleasant fire burned in the little stove. Mr. Cameron sat at one side, reading the evening paper; Mrs. Cameron at the other, knitting a stocking for Paul. A large, comfortable-looking cat was dozing tranquilly on the hearth-rug. Paul, who had been seated at the table, rose and lighted a candle.

"Where are you going, Paul?" asked Aunt Hester.

"Up-stairs for a moment."

Paul speedily returned, bearing in his hand a small blue bank-book, with his name on the cover.

He took out his pencil and figured a few minutes.

"Uncle Hugh," said he, looking up, "when I get a hundred dollars more, I shall have enough to pay father's debt."

"Principal and interest?"

"Yes, principal and interest; reckoning the interest for a year to come."

"I did not suppose you had so much money, Paul. You must have been very economical."

"Yes, Uncle Hugh more so than I have wanted to be, oftentimes; but whenever I have been tempted to spend a cent unnecessarily, I have always called to mind my promise made to father on his deathbed, and I have denied myself."

"You have done well, Paul. There are few who would have had the resolution to do as you have."

"Oh yes, Uncle Hugh," said Paul, modestly, "I think there are a great many. I begin to feel repaid already. In a few months I shall be able to pay up the whole debt."

At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Mr. Cameron answered the summons.

"Does Mr. Paul Prescott live here?" inquired a boy.

"Yes. Do you want to see him?"

"Here is a letter for him. There is no answer."

The messenger departed, leaving the letter in Mr. Cameron's hand.

Somewhat surprised, he returned to the sitting-room and handed it to Paul.

Paul opened it hastily, and discovered inclosed, a bank-note for one hundred dollars. It was accompanied with a note from his employer, stating that it was intended as a New Year's gift, but in the hurry of business, he had forgotten to give it to him during the day.

Paul's face lighted up with joy.

"Oh, Uncle Hugh!" he exclaimed, almost breathless with delight. "Don't you see that this will enable me to pay my debt at once?"

"So it will, Paul. I wish you joy."

"And my father's memory will be vindicated," said Paul, in a tone of deep satisfaction. "If he could only have lived to see this day!"

A fortnight later, Paul obtained permission from his employer to be absent from the office for a week. It was his purpose to visit Cedarville and repay 'Squire Conant the debt due him: and then, to go across the country to Wrenville, thirty miles distant, to see Aunt Lucy Lee. First, however, he ordered a new suit of a tailor, feeling a desire to appear to the best advantage on his return to the scene of his former humiliation. I must not omit to say that Paul was now a fine-looking young fellow of nineteen, with a frank, manly face, that won favor wherever he went.

In due course of time, he arrived at Cedarville, and found his way without difficulty to the house of 'Squire Conant.

It was a large house, rather imposing in its exterior, being quite the finest residence in the village.

Paul went up the walk, and rang the bell.

"Can I see 'Squire Conant?" he asked of the servant who answered the bell.

"You'll find him in that room," said the girl, pointing to a door on the left hand of the hall.

"As he doesn't know me, perhaps you had better go before."

The door was opened, and Paul found himself in the presence of his father's creditor. 'Squire Conant was looking pale and thin. He was just recovering from a severe sickness.

"I presume you don't recognize me, sir," said Paul.

"Did I ever see you before?"

"Yes, sir; my name is Paul Prescott."

"Not the son of John Prescott?"

"The same, sir. I believe my father died in your debt."

"Yes. I lent him five hundred dollars, which he never repaid."

"He tried to do so, sir. He had saved up a hundred and fifty dollars towards it, but sickness came upon him, and he was obliged to use it."

'Squire Conant's temper had been subdued by the long and dangerous illness through which he had passed. It had made him set a smaller value on his earthly possessions, from which he might be separated at any moment. When he answered Paul, it was in a manner which our hero did not expect.

"Never mind. I can afford to lose it. I have no doubt he did what he could."

"But I have come to pay it, sir," said Paul.

"You!" exclaimed 'Squire Conant, in the greatest astonishment.

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you get the money?"

"I earned it, sir."

"But you are very young. How could you have earned so much?"

Paul frankly told the story of his struggles; how for years he had practised a pinching economy, in order to redeem his father's memory from reproach.

'Squire Conant listened attentively.

"You are a good boy," he said, at length.

"Shall you have anything left after paying this money?"

"No, sir; but I shall soon earn more."

"Still, you ought to have something to begin the world with. You shall pay me half the money, and I will cancel the note."

"But, sir,——"

"Not a word. I am satisfied, and that is enough. If I hadn't lent your father the money, I might have invested it with the rest, and lost all."

'Squire Conant produced the note from a little trunk of papers, and handed it to Paul, who paid him the amount which he had stipulated, expressing at the same time his gratitude for his unexpected generosity.

"Never mind about thanks, my boy," said 'Squire Conant: "I am afraid I have loved money too well heretofore. I hope I am not too old to turn over a new leaf."



XXXIV.

HOW PAUL GOES BACK TO WRENVILLE.

While 'Squire Conant was speaking, Paul formed a sudden resolution. He remembered that Aunt Lucy Lee was a sister of 'Squire Conant. Perhaps, in his present frame of mind, it might be possible to induce him to do something for her.

"I believe I am acquainted with a sister of yours, 'Squire Conant," he commenced.

"Ha!" exclaimed the 'Squire.

"Mrs. Lucy Lee."

"Yes," was the slow reply; "she is my sister. Where did you meet her?"

"At the Wrenville Poorhouse."

"How long ago?"

"About six years since."

"Is she there, still?"

"Yes, sir. Since I have been in New York, I have heard from her frequently. I am going from here to visit her. Have you any message, sir? I am sure she would be glad to hear from you."

"She shall hear from me," said the 'Squire in a low voice. "Sit down, and I will write her a letter which, I hope, will not prove unwelcome."

Five minutes afterwards he handed Paul an open letter.

"You may read it," he said, abruptly.

"You have been a better friend to my sister than I. You shall witness my late reparation."

The letter was as follows:——

CEDARVILLE, JAN 13, 18—.

MY DEAR SISTER:—

I hope you will forgive me for my long neglect. It is not fitting that while I am possessed of abundant means you should longer remain the tenant of an almshouse. I send you by the bearer of this note, Paul Prescott, who, I understand, is a friend of yours, the sum of three hundred dollars. The same sum will be sent you annually. I hope it will be sufficient to maintain you comfortably. I shall endeavor to call upon you soon, and meanwhile remain, Your affectionate brother,

EZEKIEL CONANT.

Paul read this letter with grateful joy. It seemed almost to good to be true. Aunt Lucy would be released from the petty tyranny of Mrs. Mudge's household, and perhaps—he felt almost sure Aunt Hester would be willing to receive her as a boarder, thus insuring her a peaceful and happy home in her declining years.

"Oh, sir," said he, seizing 'Squire Conant's hand, "you cannot tell how happy you have made me."

"It is what I ought to have done before. Here is the money referred to in the letter,—three hundred dollars,—mind you don't lose it."

"I will take every care, sir."

"You may tell my sister that I shall be happy to have her write me."

"I will, sir."

Paul left 'Squire Conant's house, feeling that he had great cause for joy. The 'Squire's refusal to receive more than half the debt, left him master of over three hundred dollars. But I am not sure whether he did not rejoice even more over the good fortune which had come to Aunt Lucy Lee, whose kindness to him, in his unfriended boyhood, he would ever hold in grateful remembrance. He enjoyed in anticipation the joy which he knew Aunt Lucy would feel when the change in her fortunes was communicated to her. He knew also how great would be the chagrin of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, when they found that the meek old lady whom they hated was about to be rescued from their clutches. On the whole, Paul felt that this was the happiest day of his life. It was a satisfaction to feel that the good fortune of his early friend was all due to his own intercession.

He was able to take the cars to a point four miles distant from Wrenville. On getting out on the platform he inquired whether there was a livery stable near by. He was directed to one but a few rods distant. Entering he asked, "Can you let me have a horse and chaise to go to Wrenville?"

"Yes, sir," said the groom.

"Let me have the best horse in the stable," said Paul, "and charge me accordingly."

"Yes, sir," said the groom, respectfully, judging from Paul's dress and tone that he was a young gentleman of fortune.

A spirited animal was brought out, and Paul was soon seated in the chaise driving along the Wrenville road. Paul's city friends would hardly have recognized their economical acquaintance in the well-dressed young man who now sat behind a fast horse, putting him through his best paces. It might have been a weakness in Paul, but he remembered the manner in which he left Wrenville, an unfriended boy, compelled to fly from persecution under the cover of darkness, and he felt a certain pride in showing the Mudges that his circumstances were now entirely changed. It was over this very road that he had walked with his little bundle, in the early morning, six years before. It seemed to him almost like a dream.

At length he reached Wrenville. Though he had not been there for six years, he recognized the places that had once been familiar to him. But everything seemed to have dwindled. Accustomed to large city warehouses, the houses in the village seemed very diminutive. Even 'Squire Benjamin Newcome's house, which he had once regarded as a stately mansion, now looked like a very ordinary dwelling.

As he rode up the main street of the village, many eyes were fixed upon him and his carriage, but no one thought of recognizing, in the well-dressed youth, the boy who had run away from the Wrenville Poorhouse.



XXXV.

CONCLUSION.

At the very moment that Paul was driving through the village street, Mr. Nicholas Mudge entered the Poorhouse in high spirits. Certainly ill-fortune must have befallen some one to make the good man so exhilarant.

To explain, Mr. Mudge had just been to the village store to purchase some groceries. One of his parcels was tied up in a stray leaf of a recent New York Daily, in which he discovered an item which he felt sure would make Aunt Lucy unhappy. He communicated it to Mrs. Mudge, who highly approved his design. She called the old lady from the common room.

"Here, Aunt Lucy," she said, "is something that will interest you."

Aunt Lucy came in, wondering a little at such an unusual mark of attention.

Mrs. Mudge immediately commenced reading with malicious emphasis a paragraph concerning a certain Paul Prescott, who had been arrested for thieving, and sentenced to the House of Reformation for a term of months.

"There," said Mrs. Mudge, triumphantly, "what do you say to your favorite now? Turned out well, hasn't he? Didn't I always say so? I always knew that boy was bad at heart, and that he'd come to a bad end."

"I don't believe it's the same boy," declared Aunt Lucy, who was nevertheless unpleasantly affected by the paragraph. She thought it possible that Paul might have yielded to a powerful temptation.

"Perhaps you think I've been making it up. If you don't believe it look at the paper for yourself," thrusting it into Aunt Lucy's hands.

"Yes," said the old lady. "I see that the name is the same; but, for all that, there is a mistake somewhere. I do not believe it is the same boy."

"You don't? Just as if there would be more than one boy of that name. There may be other Prescotts, but there isn't but one Paul Prescott, take my word for it."

"If it is he," said Aunt Lucy, indignantly, "is it Christianlike to rejoice over the poor boy's misfortune?"

"Misfortune!" retorted Mrs. Mudge with a sneer; "you call it a misfortune to steal, then! I call it a crime."

"It's often misfortune that drives people to it, though," continued the old lady, looking keenly at Mrs. Mudge. "I have known cases where they didn't have that excuse."

Mrs. Mudge colored.

"Go back to your room," said she, sharply; "and don't stay here accusing me and Mr. Mudge of unchristian conduct. You're the most troublesome pauper we have on our hands; and I do wish the town would provide for you somewhere else."

"So do I," sighed the old lady to herself, though she did not think fit to give audible voice to her thoughts.

It was at this moment that Paul halted his chaise at the gate, and lightly jumping out, fastened his horse to a tree, and walked up to the front door.

"Who can it be?" thought Mrs. Mudge, hastily adjusting her cap, and taking off her apron.

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Mr. Mudge, unsuspiciously.

"I declare! I look like a fright."

"No worse than usual," said her husband, gallantly.

By this time Paul had knocked.

"Good-morning, sir," said Mrs. Mudge, deferentially, her respect excited by Paul's dress and handsome chaise.

"Is Mrs. Lee in?" inquired Paul, not caring to declare himself, yet, to his old enemy.

"Yes," said Mrs. Mudge, obsequiously, though not overpleased to find that this was Aunt Lucy's visitor; "would you like to see her?"

"If you please."

"What can he want of the old lady?" thought Mrs. Mudge, as she went to summon her.

"A visitor for me?" asked Aunt Lucy, looking at Mrs. Mudge somewhat suspiciously.

"Yes; and as he's come in a carriage, you'd better slick up a little; put on a clean cap or something."

Aunt Lucy was soon ready.

She looked wonderingly at Paul, not recognizing him.

"You are not very good at remembering your old friends," said Paul, with a smile.

"What!" exclaimed Aunt Lucy, her face lighting up with joy; "are you little Paul?"

"Not very little, now," said our hero, laughing; "but I'm the same Paul you used to know."

Mrs. Mudge, who through the half open door had heard this revelation, was overwhelmed with astonishment and confusion. She hurried to her husband.

"Wonders will never cease!" she exclaimed, holding up both hands. "If that doesn't turn out to be Paul Prescott. Of course he's up in the world, or he wouldn't dress so well, and ride in such a handsome carriage."

"You don't say so!" returned Mr. Mudge, who looked as if he had heard of a heavy misfortune.

"Yes, I do; I heard him say so with his own lips. It's a pity you showed that paragraph to Aunt Lucy, this morning."

"That you showed, you mean," retorted her husband.

"No, I don't. You know it was you that did it."

"Hush; they'll hear."

Meanwhile the two friends were conversing together happily.

"I'm so glad you're doing so well, Paul," said Aunt Lucy. "It was a lucky day when you left the Poorhouse behind you."

"Yes, Aunt Lucy, and to-day is a lucky day for you. There's room for two in that chaise, and I'm going to take you away with me."

"I should enjoy a ride, Paul. It's a long time since I have taken one."

"You don't understand me. You're going away not to return."

The old lady smiled sadly.

"No, no, Paul. I can't consent to become a burden upon your generosity. You can't afford it, and it will not be right."

"O," said Paul, smiling, "you give me credit for too much. I mean that you shall pay your board."

"But you know I have no money."

"No, I don't. I don't consider that a lady is penniless, who has an income of three hundred dollars a year."

"I don't understand you, Paul."

"Then, perhaps you will understand this," said our hero, enjoying the old lady's astonishment.

He drew from his pocket a roll of bills, and passed them to Aunt Lucy.

The old lady looked so bewildered, that he lost no time in explaining the matter to her. Then, indeed, Aunt Lucy was happy; not only because she had become suddenly independent, but, because after years of coldness and estrangement, her brother had at last become reconciled to her.

"Now, Aunt Lucy," resumed Paul, "I'll tell you what my plans are. You shall get into the chaise with me, and go at once to New York. I think Aunt Hester will be willing to receive you as a boarder; if not, I will find you a pleasant place near by. Will that suit you?"

"It will make me very happy; but I cannot realize it. It seems like a dream."

At this moment Mrs. Mudge entered the room, and, after a moment's scrutiny, pretended to recognize Paul. Her husband followed close behind her.

"Can I believe my eyes?" she exclaimed. "Is this indeed Paul Prescott? I am very glad to see you back."

"Only a visit, Mrs. Mudge," said Paul, smiling.

"You'll stop to dinner, I hope?"

Paul thought of the soup and dry bread which he used to find so uninviting, and said that he should not have time to do so.

"We've thought of you often," said Mr. Mudge, writhing his harsh features into a smile. "There's scarcely a day that we haven't spoken of you."

"I ought to feel grateful for your remembrance," said Paul, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "But I don't think, Mr. Mudge, you always thought so much of me."

Mr. Mudge coughed in some embarrassment, and not thinking of anything in particular to say, said nothing.

"I am going to take from you another of your boarders," said Paul. "Can you spare Aunt Lucy?"

"For how long?" asked Mrs. Mudge.

"For all the time. She has just come into possession of a little property,—several hundred dollars a year,—and I have persuaded her to go to New York to board."

"Is this true?" exclaimed Mrs. Mudge in astonishment.

"Yes," said the old lady, "God has been bountiful to me when I least expected it."

"Can I be of any service in assisting you to pack up, Mrs. Lee?" asked Mrs. Mudge, with new-born politeness. She felt that as a lady of property, Aunt Lucy was entitled to much greater respect and deference than before.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mudge," said Paul, answering for her.

"She won't have occasion for anything in this house. She will get a supply of new things when she gets to New York."

The old lady looked very happy, and Mrs. Mudge, in spite of her outward deference, felt thoroughly provoked at her good fortune.

I will not dwell upon the journey to New York. Aunt Lucy, though somewhat fatigued, bore it much better than she had anticipated. Mr. and Mrs. Cameron entered very heartily into Paul's plans, and readily agreed to receive Aunt Lucy as an inmate of their happy and united household. The old lady felt it to be a happy and blessed change from the Poorhouse, where scanty food and poor accommodations had been made harder to bear by the ill temper of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, to a home whose atmosphere was peace and kindness.

*****

And now, dear reader, it behooves us to draw together the different threads of our story, and bring all to a satisfactory end.

Mr. and Mrs. Mudge are no longer in charge of the Wrenville Poorhouse. After Aunt Lucy's departure, Mrs. Mudge became so morose and despotic, that her rule became intolerable. Loud complaints came to the ears of 'Squire Newcome, Chairman of the Overseers of the Poor. One fine morning he was compelled to ride over and give the interesting couple warning to leave immediately. Mr. Mudge undertook the charge of a farm, but his habits of intoxication increased upon him to such an extent, that he was found dead one winter night, in a snow-drift, between his own house and the tavern. Mrs. Mudge was not extravagant in her expressions of grief, not having a very strong affection for her husband. At last accounts, she was keeping a boarding-house in a manufacturing town. Some time since, her boarders held an indignation meeting, and threatened to leave in a body unless she improved her fare,—a course to which she was obliged to submit.

George Dawkins, unable to obtain a recommendation from Mr. Danforth, did not succeed in securing another place in New York. He finally prevailed upon his father to advance him a sum of money, with which he went to California. Let us hope that he may "turn over a new leaf" there, and establish a better reputation than he did in New York.

Mr. Stubbs is still in the tin business. He is as happy as the day is long, and so are his wife and children. Once a year he comes to New York and pays Paul a visit. This supplies him with something to talk about for the rest of the year. He is frugal in his expenses, and is able to lay up a couple of hundred dollars every year, which he confides to Paul, in whose financial skill he has the utmost confidence.

I am sure my boy readers would not forgive me for omitting to tell them something more about Ben Newcome. Although his mirthful spirit sometimes led him into mischief, he was good-hearted, and I have known him do many an act of kindness, even at considerable trouble to himself. It will be remembered that in consequence of his night adventure, during which he personated a ghost, much to the terror of Mr. Mudge his father determined to send him to a military school. This proved to be a wise arrangement. The discipline was such as Ben needed, and he soon distinguished himself by his excellence in the military drill. Soon after he graduated, the Rebellion broke out, and Ben was at once, in spite of his youth, elected Captain of the Wrenville company. At the battle of Antietam he acquitted himself with so much credit that he was promoted to a major. He was again promoted, and when Richmond was evacuated, he was one of the first officers to enter the streets of the Rebel capital, a colonel in command of his regiment. I have heard on high authority, that he is considered one of the best officers in the service.

Mr. and Mrs. Cameron are still living. They are happy in the success and increasing prosperity of Paul, whom they regard as a son. Between them and Aunt Lucy he would stand a very fair chance of being spoiled, if his own good sense and good judgment were not sufficient to save him from such a misfortune. Paul is now admitted to a small interest in the firm, which entitles him to a share in the profits. As Danforth and Co. have done a very extensive business of late years, this interest brings him in a very handsome income. There is only one cause of difference between him and the sexton. He insists that Uncle Hugh, who is getting infirm, should resign his office, as he is abundantly able to support the whole family. But the good sexton loves his duties, and will continue to discharge them as long as he is able.

And now we must bid farewell to Paul. He has battled bravely with the difficulties and discouragements that beset him in early life, he has been faithful to the charge which he voluntarily assumed, and his father's memory is free from reproach. He often wishes that his father could have lived to witness his prosperity? but God has decreed it otherwise. Happy in the love of friends, and in the enjoyment of all that can make life desirable, so far as external circumstances have that power, let us all wish him God speed!

THE END