my dear boy. I shall hope to hear from
you now and then, and if I learn that you are prosperous and happy, I
shall be better contented with my own lot. But have you thought of all
the labor and weariness that you will have to encounter? It is best to
consider well all this, before entering upon such an undertaking."

"I have thought of all that, and if there were any prospect of my being
happy here, I might stay for the present. But you know how Mrs. Mudge
has treated me, and how she feels towards me now."

"I acknowledge, Paul, that it has proved a hard apprenticeship, and
perhaps it might be made yet harder if you should stay longer. You must
let me know when you are going, I shall want to bid you good-by."

"No fear that I shall forget that, Aunt Lucy. Next to my mother you have
been most kind to me, and I love you for it."

Lightly pressing her lips to Paul's forehead Aunt Lucy left the room to
conceal the emotion called forth by his approaching departure. Of all
the inmates of the establishment she had felt most closely drawn to the
orphan boy, whose loneliness and bereavement had appealed to her woman's
heart. This feeling had been strengthened by the care she had been
called to bestow upon him in his illness, for it is natural to love
those whom we have benefited. But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish of
living creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which he
felt was right never occurred to her. She determined that she would
do what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go.
Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing that
this would prove a useful present. This came near being the means of
discovering Paul's plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstanding
her numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, had
her attention directed to Aunt Lucy's work.

"Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr.
Mudge?" she asked.

"No," said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.

"Then whose are those, I should like to know? Somebody of more
importance than my husband, I suppose."

"They are for Paul," returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.

"Paul!" repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantity
of salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; "Paul's are they? And who
asked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?"

"No one."

"Then what are you doing it for?"

"I thought he might want them."