Tom Pinkerton managed to learn that Grace was now without a home, and mentioned it to his father.

“Won’t she have to go to the poorhouse now, father?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” said Deacon Pinkerton.  “There is no other place for her that I can see.”

“Ah, I’m glad,” said Tom, maliciously.  “Won’t that upstart’s pride be taken down?  He was too proud to go to the poorhouse, where he belonged, but he can’t help his sister’s going there.  If he isn’t a pauper himself, he’ll be the brother of a pauper, and that’s the next thing to it.”

“That is true,” said the deacon.  “He was very impudent in return for my kindness.  Still, I am sorry for him.”

I am afraid the deacon’s sorrow was not very deep, for he certainly looked unusually cheerful when he harnessed up his horse and drove around to the temporary home of the Pomeroys.

“Good-morning, Mr. Pomeroy,” he said, seeing the latter in the yard.  “You’ve met with a severe loss.”

“Yes, deacon; it is a severe loss to a poor man like me.”

“To be sure.  Well, I’ve called around to relieve you of a part of your cares.  I am going to take Grace Fowler to the poorhouse.”

“Couldn’t you get her a place with a private family to help about the house in return for her board, while she goes to school?”

“There’s nobody wants a young girl like her,” said the deacon.

“Her brother would pay part of her board—­that is, when he has a place.”

“Hasn’t he got a place?” asked the deacon, pricking up his ears.  “I heard he was in a store in New York.”

“He lost his place,” said Mr. Pomeroy, reluctantly, “partly because of the dullness of general trade.”

“Then he can’t maintain his sister.  She will have to go to the poorhouse.  Will you ask her to get ready, and I’ll take her right over to the poorhouse.”

There was no alternative.  Mr. Pomeroy went into the house, and broke the sad news to his wife and Grace.

“Never mind,” she said, with attempted cheerfulness, though her lips quivered, “I shan’t have to stay there long.  Frank will be sure to send for me very shortly.”

“It’s too bad, Grace,” said Sam, looking red about the eyes; “it’s too bad that you should have to go to the poorhouse.”

“Come and see me, Sam,” said Grace.

“Yes, I will, Grace.  I’ll come often, too.  You shan’t stay there long.”

“Good-by,” said Grace, faltering.  “You have all been very kind to me.”

“Good-by, my dear child,” said Mrs. Pomeroy.

“Who knows but you can return to us when the new house is done?”

So poor Grace went out from her pleasant home to find the deacon, grim-faced and stern, waiting for her.

“Jump in, little girl,” he said.  “You’ve kept me waiting for you a long time, and my time is valuable.”

The distance to the poorhouse was about a mile and a half.  For the first half mile Deacon Pinkerton kept silence.  Then he began to speak, in a tone of cold condescension, as if it were a favor for such a superior being to address an insignificant child, about to become a pauper.