Part 3

“Yes, but I don't like it much.”

“You are very much in error. You will never learn to employ your tongue with elegance and precision, unless you engage in this beneficial study.”

“I can use my tongue well enough, without studying grammar,” said Ben. He proceeded to illustrate the truth of this assertion by twisting his tongue about in a comical manner.

“Tongue,” exclaimed his father, “is but another name for language I mean your native language.”

“Oh!”

Ben was about to leave the room to avoid further questions of an embarrassing nature, when his father interrupted his exit by saying--

“Stay, Benjamin, do not withdraw till I have made all the inquiries which I intend.”

The boy unwillingly returned.

“You have not answered my question.”

“I've forgotten what it was.”

“What good would it do?” asked the Squire, simplifying his speech to reach Ben's comprehension, “what good would it do to teach the kitten to swim?”

“O, I thought,” said Ben, hesitating, “that some time or other she might happen to fall into the water, and might not be able to get out unless she knew how.”

“I think,” said his father with an unusual display of sagacity, “that she will be in much greater hazard of drowning while learning to swim under your direction than by any other chance likely to befall her.”

“Shouldn't wonder,” was Ben's mental comment, “Pretty cute for you, dad.”

Fortunately, Ben did not express his thoughts aloud. They would have implied such an utter lack of respect that the Squire would have been quite overwhelmed by the reflection that his impressive manners had produced no greater effect on one who had so excellent a chance of being impressed by them.

“Benjamin,” concluded his father, “I have an errand for you to execute. You may go to Mr. Prescott's and see if he is yet living. I hear that he is a lying on the brink of the grave.”

An expression of sadness stole over the usually merry face of Ben, as he started on his errand.

“Poor Paul!” he thought, “what will he do when his father dies? He's such a capital fellow, too. I just wish I had a wagon load of money, I do, and I'd give him half. That's so!”

II.

PAUL PRESCOTT'S HOME.

We will precede Ben on his visit to the house of Mr. Prescott.

It was an old weather-beaten house, of one story, about half a mile distant from 'Squire Newcome's residence. The Prescott family had lived here for five years, or ever since they had removed to Wrenville. Until within a year they had lived comfortably, when two blows came in quick succession. The first was the death of Mrs. Prescott, an excellent woman, whose loss was deeply felt by her husband and son. Soon afterwards Mr. Prescott, a carpenter by trade, while at work upon the roof of a high building, fell off, and not only broke his leg badly, but suffered some internal injury of a still more serious nature. He had not been able to do a stroke of work since. After some months it became evident that he would never recover. A year had now passed. During this time his expenses had swallowed up the small amount which he had succeeded in laying up previous to his sickness. It was clear that at his death there would be nothing left. At thirteen years of age Paul would have to begin the world without a penny.

Mr. Prescott lay upon a bed in a small bedroom adjoining the kitchen. Paul, a thoughtful-looking boy sat beside it, ready to answer his call.

There had been silence for some time, when Mr. Prescott called feebly--

“Paul!”

“I am here, father,” said Paul.

“I am almost gone, Paul, I don't think I shall last through the day.”

“O, father,” said Paul, sorrowfully, “Don't leave me.”