“No.”

“Why did you come here, then?”

“Because I wanted to go somewhere where I could earn a living, and I thought I might find something to do here.”

“But suppose you shouldn’t find anything to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Paul, slowly.  “I haven’t thought much about that.”

“Well, my lad,” said the sexton, not unkindly, “I can’t say your prospects look very bright.  You should have good reasons for entering on such an undertaking.  I—­I don’t think you are a bad boy.  You don’t look like a bad one,” he added, half to himself.

“I hope not, sir,” said Paul.

“I hope not, too.  I was going to say that I wish I could help you to some kind of work.  If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you.”

Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.

“What is your name?” inquired the sexton.

“Paul Prescott.”

“That sounds like a good name.  I suppose you haven’t got much money?”

“Only twelve cents.”

“Bless me! only twelve cents.  Poor boy! you are indeed poor.”

“But I can work,” said Paul, spiritedly.  “I ought to be able to earn my living.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the way to feel.  Heaven helps those who help themselves.”

When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of observing his companion’s external appearance.  He was an elderly man, with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain air of benevolence which softened their expression.

As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which is already known to the reader.  The sexton said little except in the way of questions designed to elicit further particulars, till, at the conclusion he said, “Must tell Hester.”

At length they came to a small house, in a respectable but not fashionable quarter of the city.  One-half of this was occupied by the sexton.  He opened the door and led the way into the sitting-room.  It was plainly but neatly furnished, the only ornament being one or two engravings cheaply framed and hung over the mantel-piece.  They were by no means gems of art, but then, the sexton did not claim to be a connoisseur, and would probably not have understood the meaning of the word.

“Sit here a moment,” said the sexton, pointing to a chair, “I’ll go and speak to Hester.”

Paul whiled away the time in looking at the pictures in a copy of “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” which lay on the table.

In the next room sat a woman of perhaps fifty engaged in knitting.  It was very easy to see that she could never have possessed the perishable gift of beauty.  Hers was one of the faces on which nature has written plain, in unmistakable characters.  Yet if the outward features had been a reflex of the soul within, few faces would have been more attractive than that of Hester Cameron.  At the feet of the sexton’s wife, for such she was, reposed a maltese cat, purring softly by way of showing her contentment.  Indeed, she had good reason to be satisfied.  In default of children, puss had become a privileged pet, being well fed and carefully shielded from all the perils that beset cat-hood.