But Aunt Lucy was the most unselfish of living creatures, and the idea of dissuading Paul from a course which he felt was right never occurred to her.  She determined that she would do what she could to further his plans, now that he had decided to go.  Accordingly she commenced knitting him a pair of stockings, knowing that this would prove a useful present.  This came near being the means of discovering Paul’s plan to Mrs. Mudge The latter, who notwithstanding her numerous duties, managed to see everything that was going on, had her attention directed to Aunt Lucy’s work.

“Have you finished the stockings that I set you to knitting for Mr. Mudge?” she asked.

“No,” said Aunt Lucy, in some confusion.

“Then whose are those, I should like to know?  Somebody of more importance than my husband, I suppose.”

“They are for Paul,” returned the old lady, in some uneasiness.

“Paul!” repeated Mrs. Mudge, in her haste putting a double quantity of salaeratus into the bread she was mixing; “Paul’s are they?  And who asked you to knit him a pair, I should like to be informed?”

“No one.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

“I thought he might want them.”

“Mighty considerate, I declare.  And I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were knitting them with the yarn I gave you for Mr. Mudge’s stockings.”

“You are mistaken,” said Aunt Lucy, shortly.

“Oh, you’re putting on your airs, are you?  I’ll tell you what, Madam, you’d better put those stockings away in double-quick time, and finish my husband’s, or I’ll throw them into the fire, and Paul Prescott may wait till he goes barefoot before he gets them.”

There was no alternative.  Aunt Lucy was obliged to obey, at least while her persecutor was in the room.  When alone for any length of time she took out Paul’s stockings from under her apron, and worked on them till the approaching steps of Mrs. Mudge warned her to desist.

*****

Three days passed.  The shadows of twilight were already upon the earth.  The paupers were collected in the common room appropriated to their use.  Aunt Lucy had suspended her work in consequence of the darkness, for in this economical household a lamp was considered a useless piece of extravagance.  Paul crept quietly to her side, and whispered in tones audible to her alone, “I am going to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! so soon?”

“Yes,” said Paul, “I am as ready now as I shall ever be.  I wanted to tell you, because I thought maybe you might like to know that this is the last evening we shall spend together at present.”

“Do you go in the morning?”

“Yes, Aunt Lucy, early in the morning.  Mr. Mudge usually calls me at five; I must be gone an hour before that time.  I suppose I must bid you good-by to-night.”

“Not to-night, Paul; I shall be up in the morning to see you go.”