Paul Prescott's Charge Part 20

"How long have you been in New York?" was his next inquiry.

"Not very long," said Paul. "I only got here yesterday."

"Then you don't know anybody in the city?"

"No."

"Why did you come here, then?"

"Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I thought I might find something to do here."

"But suppose you shouldn't find anything to do?"

"I don't know," said Paul, slowly. "I haven't thought much about that."

"Well, my lad," said the s.e.xton, not unkindly, "I can't say your prospects look very bright. You should have good reasons for entering on such an undertaking. I--I don't think you are a bad boy. You don't look like a bad one," he added, half to himself.

"I hope not, sir," said Paul.

"I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you."

Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.

"What is your name?" inquired the s.e.xton.

"Paul Prescott."

"That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?"

"Only twelve cents."

"Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor."

"But I can work," said Paul, spiritedly. "I ought to be able to earn my living."

"Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help themselves."

When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man, with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain air of benevolence which softened their expression.

As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which is already known to the reader. The s.e.xton said little except in the way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the conclusion he said, "Must tell Hester."

At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not fashionable quarter of the city. One-half of this was occupied by the s.e.xton. He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room. It was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece. They were by no means gems of art, but then, the s.e.xton did not claim to be a connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the word.

"Sit here a moment," said the s.e.xton, pointing to a chair, "I'll go and speak to Hester."

Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress," which lay on the table.

In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting. It was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable gift of beauty. Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written PLAIN, in unmistakable characters. Yet if the outward features had been a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive than that of Hester Cameron. At the feet of the s.e.xton's wife, for such she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her contentment. Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied. In default of children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.

"Home so soon?" said Hester inquiringly, as her husband opened the door.

"Yes, Hester, and I have brought company with me," said the s.e.xton.

"Company!" repeated his wife. "Who is it?"

"It is a poor boy, who was accidentally locked up in the church last night."

"And he had to stay there all night?"

"Yes; but perhaps it was lucky for him, for he had no other place to sleep, and not money enough to pay for one."

"Poor child!" said Hester, compa.s.sionately. "Is it not terrible to think that any human creature should be without the comforts of a home which even our tabby possesses. It ought to make you thankful that you are so well cared for, Tab."

The cat opened her eyes and winked drowsily at her mistress.

"So you brought the poor boy home, Hugh?"

"Yes, Hester,--I thought we ought not to begrudge a meal to one less favored by fortune than ourselves. You know we should consider ourselves the almoners of G.o.d's bounties."

"Surely, Hugh."

"I knew you would feel so, Hester. And suppose we have the chicken for dinner that I sent in the morning. I begin to have a famous appet.i.te. I think I should enjoy it."

Hester knew perfectly well that it was for Paul's sake, and not for his own, that her husband spoke. But she so far entered into his feelings, that she determined to expend her utmost skill as cook upon the dinner, that Paul might have at least one good meal.

"Now I will bring the boy in," said he. "I am obliged to go to work, but you will find some way to entertain him, I dare say."

"If you will come out (this he said to Paul), I will introduce you to a new friend."

Paul was kindly welcomed by the s.e.xton's wife, who questioned him in a sympathizing tone about his enforced stay in the church. To all her questions Paul answered in a modest yet manly fashion, so as to produce a decidedly favorable impression upon his entertainer.

Our hero was a handsome boy. Just at present he was somewhat thin, not having entirely recovered from the effects of his sickness and poor fare while a member of Mr. Mudge's family; but he was well made, and bade fair to become a stout boy. His manner was free and unembarra.s.sed, and he carried a letter of recommendation in his face. It must be admitted, however that there were two points in which his appearance might have been improved. Both his hands and face had suffered from the dust of travel. His clothes, too, were full of dust.

A single glance told Hester all this, and she resolved to remedy it.

She quietly got some water and a towel, and requested Paul to pull off his jacket, which she dusted while he was performing his ablutions.

Then, with the help of a comb to arrange his disordered hair, he seemed quite like a new boy, and felt quite refreshed by the operation.

"Really, it improves him very much," said Hester to herself.

She couldn't help recalling a boy of her own,--the only child she ever had,--who had been accidentally drowned when about the age of Paul.

"If he had only lived," she thought, "how different might have been our lives."

A thought came into her mind, and she looked earnestly at Paul.

"I--yes I will speak to Hugh about it," she said, speaking aloud, unconsciously.