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, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can't think of going so far as that?"
"I think it would be the best plan," said Paul. "In a great city like New York there must be a great many things to do which I can't do here. I don't feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don't like it. O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too," pursued Paul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, "I may become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and you shall come and live with me."
Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. The thought came to her that her life was already declining while his was but just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreams should be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it. But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmed the brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.
"I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to share in your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he will help you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you are gone. It will seem more lonely than ever."
"If it were not for you, Aunt Lucy, I should not mind going at all, but I shall be sorry to leave you behind."
"God will care for both of us, 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.
