Part 5

“Does Squire Conant know that you are sick, father?” he inquired.

“Yes, I wrote him about my accident, telling him at the same time that I regretted it in part on account of the interruption which it must occasion in my payments.”

“And knowing this, he wrote such a letter as that,” said Paul, indignantly, “what a hard, unfeeling wretch he must be!”

“I suppose it is vexatious to him to be kept out of his money.”

“But he has plenty more. He would never miss it if he had given it to you outright.”

“That is not the way to look at it, Paul. The money is justly his, and it is a great sorrow to me that I must die without paying it.”

“Father,” said Paul, after a pause, “will it be any relief to you, if I promise to pay it,--that is, if I am ever able?”

Mr. Prescott's face brightened.

“That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day.”

“Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be mine, and I will pay it.”

Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, “Poor boy,” he said, “why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't want to purchase comfort at such a price.”

“No, father,” said Paul sturdily, “it is too late now. I have made the promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something to live for. I am young--I may have a great many years before me. For thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father.”

“May God help and prosper you, my boy,” said Mr. Prescott, solemnly. “You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man. But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep.”

Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as he might find upon the ground.

He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.

“How are you, Paul?”

“Pretty well, Ben.”

“How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time.”

“Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would ever get any better.”

“How is he this morning?”

“Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I went out.”

“I brought over something for you,” said Ben, tugging away at his pocket.

Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.

“I found 'em in the closet,” he said.

“Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?”

“Then I don't know as I ought to take them,” said Paul, though, to tell the truth, they looked tempting to him.

“O, nonsense,” said Ben; “they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to scold a little; it does her good.”

The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.