misfortunes may come upon him. He will be sustained by the
conviction that his own errors have not brought them upon him."

"I will try to do right," said Paul, placing his hand in that of his
companion, "and if ever I am tempted to do wrong, I will think of you
and of my mother, and that thought shall restrain me."

"It's time to go bed, folks," proclaimed Mrs Mudge, appearing at the
door. "I can't have you sitting up all night, as I've no doubt you'd
like to do."

It was only eight o'clock, but no one thought of interposing an
objection. The word of Mrs. Mudge was law in her household, as even her
husband was sometimes made aware.

All quietly rose from their seats and repaired to bed. It was an
affecting sight to watch the tottering gait of those on whose heads the
snows of many winters had drifted heavily, as they meekly obeyed the
behest of one whose coarse nature forbade her sympathizing with them in
their clouded age, and many infirmities.

"Come," said she, impatient of their slow movements, "move a little
quicker, if it's perfectly convenient. Anybody'd think you'd been hard
at work all day, as I have. You're about the laziest set I ever had
anything to do with. I've got to be up early in the morning, and can't
stay here dawdling."

"She's got a sweet temper," said Paul, in a whisper, to Aunt Lucy.

"Hush!" said the old lady. "She may hear you."

"What's that you're whispering about?" said Mrs. Mudge, suspiciously.
"Something you're ashamed to have heard, most likely."

Paul thought it best to remain silent.

"To-morrow morning at four!" he whispered to Aunt Lucy, as he pressed
her hand in the darkness.

VII.

PAUL BEGINS HIS JOURNEY.

Paul ascended the stairs to his hard pallet for the last time. For the
last time! There is sadness in the thought, even when the future which
lies before us glows with brighter colors than the past has ever worn.
But to Paul, whose future was veiled in uncertainty, and who was about
to part with the only friend who felt an interest in his welfare, this
thought brought increased sorrow.

He stood before the dirt-begrimed window through which alone the
struggling sunbeams found an inlet into the gloomy little attic,
and looked wistfully out upon the barren fields that surrounded the
poorhouse. Where would he be on the morrow at that time? He did not
know. He knew little or nothing of the great world without, yet his
resolution did not for an instant falter