is 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