object. Mrs. Mudge was a hard, practical woman, and her heart was so encrusted with worldliness and self-interest that she might as well have been without one.
One day, as Paul lay quietly gazing at Aunt Lucy’s benevolent face, and mentally contrasting it with that of Mrs. Mudge, whose shrill voice could be heard form below, he was seized with a sudden desire to learn something of her past history.
“How long have you been here, Aunt Lucy?” he inquired.
She looked up from her knitting, and sighed as she answered, “A long and weary time to look back upon, Paul. I have been here ten years.”
“Ten years,” repeated Paul, thoughtfully, “and I am thirteen. So you have been here nearly all my lifetime. Has Mr. Mudge been here all that time?”
“Only the last two years. Before that we had Mrs. Perkins.”
“Did she treat you any better than Mrs. Mudge?”
“Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” vociferated that lady, who had ascended the stairs without being heard by Aunt Lucy of Paul, and had thus caught the last sentence. “Any better than Mrs. Mudge!” she repeated, thoroughly provoked. “So you’ve been talking about me, you trollop, have you? I’ll come up with you, you may depend upon that. That’s to pay for my giving you tea Sunday night, is it? Perhaps you’ll get some more. It’s pretty well in paupers conspiring together because they aint treated like princes and princesses. Perhaps you’d like to got boarded with Queen Victoria.”
The old lady sat very quiet during this tirade. She had been the subject of similar invective before, and knew that it would do no good to oppose Mrs. Mudge in her present excited state.
“I don’t wonder you haven’t anything to say,” said the infuriated dame. “I should think you’d want to hide your face in shame, you trollop.”
Paul was not quite so patient as his attendant. Her kindness had produced such an impression on him, that Mrs. Mudge, by her taunts, stirred up his indignation.
“She’s no more of a trollop than you are,” said he, with spirit.
Mrs. Mudge whirled round at this unexpected attack, and shook her fist menacingly at Paul—
“So, you’ve put in your oar, you little jackanapes,” said she, “If you’re well enough to be impudent you’re well enough to go to work. You aint a goin’ to lie here idle much longer, I can tell you. If you deceive Dr. Townsend, and make him believe you’re sick, you can’t deceive me. No doubt you feel mighty comfortable, lyin’ here with nothing to do, while I’m a slavin’ myself to death down stairs, waitin’ upon you; (this was a slight exaggeration, as Aunt Lucy took the entire charge of Paul, including the preparation of his food;) but you’d better make the most of it, for you won’t lie here much longer. You’ll miss not bein’ able to talk about me, won’t you?”
Mrs. Mudge paused a moment as if expecting an answer to her highly sarcastic question, but Paul felt that no advantage would be gained by saying more.. He was not naturally a quick-tempered buy, and had only been led to this little ebullition by the wanton attack by Mrs. Mudge.
This lady, after standing a moment as if defying the twain to a further contest, went out, slamming the door violently after her.
“You did wrong to provoke her, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, gravely.
“How could I help it?” asked Paul, earnestly. “If she had only abused ME, I should not have cared so much, but when she spoke about you, who have been so kind to me, I could not be silent.”
“I thank you, Paul, for your kind feeling,” said the old lady, gently, “but we must learn to bear and forbear. The best of us have our faults and failings.”
“What are yours, Aunt Lucy?”
“O, a great many.”
“Such as what?”
“I am afraid I am sometimes discontented with the station which God has assigned me.”
“I don’t think you can be very much to blame for that. I should never learn to be contented here if I lived to the age of Methuselah.”
Paul lay quite still for an hour or more. During that time he formed a determination which will be announced in the next chapter.
VI
PAUL’S DETERMINATION
At the close of the last chapter it was stated that Paul had come to a determination.
This was,—TO RUN AWAY.
That he had good reason for this we have already seen.
He was now improving rapidly, and only waited till he was well enough to put his design into execution.
“Aunt Lucy,” said he one day, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
The old lady looked up inquiringly.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking of a long time,—at least most of the time since I’ve been sick. It isn’t pleasant for me to stay here, and I’ve pretty much made up my mind that I sha’n’t.”
“Where will you go?” asked the old lady, dropping her work in surprise.
“I don’t know of any particular place, but I should be better off most anywhere than here.”
“But you are so young, Paul.”
“God will take care of me, Aunt Lucy,—mother used to tell me that. Besides, here I have no hope of learning anything or improving my condition. Then again, if I stay here, I can never do what father wished me to do.”
“What is that, Paul?”
Paul told the story of his father’s indebtedness to Squire Conant, and the cruel letter which the Squire had written.
“I mean to pay that debt,” he concluded firmly. “I won’t let anybody say that my father kept them out of their money. There is no chance here; somewhere else I may find work and money.”
“It is a great undertaking for a boy like you, Paul,” said Aunt Lucy, thoughtfully. “To whom is the money due?”
“Squire Conant of Cedarville.”
Aunt Lucy seemed surprised and agitated by the mention of this name.
“Paul,” said she, “Squire Conant is my brother.”
“Your brother!” repeated he in great surprise. “Then why does he allow you to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you.”
“It is a long story,” said the old lady, sadly. “All that you will be interested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. My husband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed me since.”
“It is a great shame,” said Paul.
“We won’t judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?”
“I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far it is to New York?”
“O,
