PAUL AND CLEMENT.
"This is a sad melancholy letter, from our poor mother," said Paul, looking mournfully on his brother. "It is indeed, Clement; and our dear Fanny—" "Is doomed to be unfortunate, like all the rest of us."—"Do not say so: it is ungrateful to say that, brother. My mother has a decent competency."—"Call it rather a bare competency," interposed Clement. "And you and I, Clement; are we not very fortunate, in holding situations that keep us in honest independence?" Clement laughed, shrugged up his shoulders, and, somewhat saucily, repeated the words, "Honest independence!"—"Nay," persisted Paul, "I am right; it is, as I assert: whilst we do our duty, we are sure to retain our places; and the pay, thus honourably earned, secures our subsistence."—"You are an excellent fellow, Paul; and I wish I were half as good," said Clement; "but, really, when I every day see so many richer than we are—" "You think of how many are poorer," slyly exclaimed Paul.—"Not exactly that—not exactly that—brother," said Clement, laughing; "but you are a capital hand for ingenious inferences and conclusions; and 'faith you shall have it all your own way. For this I know, your mode of talking,—I beg pardon, of reasoning,—keeps my mind more quiet,—I might say, more cheerful,—than any plan of my own; and so your servant, brother Paul."
During this speech, Paul had again taken up the letter, and his brother begged him to read aloud the passage relating to their sister; which he did in these words.
"You will be sorry to hear, my dear boys, that Fanny's marriage is again delayed. Indeed, I begin now to fear, it will never take place. Your friend, Pelham, is an excellent young man, and every way deserving of her; but, disappointed in his prospects of an establishment, he knows not what to do. Certainly, he would never wish, nor could I ever consent to their union, until some rational prospect of subsistence were adopted. My small pension barely supplies our passing wants: it dies with me,—I have nothing to give—nothing to leave, but my blessing; and there is little Kitty also to be thought of; so, I fear, Fanny must give up all hopes of marriage,—at least, for many years."
Paul put down the letter, and sighed. Clement started up, and exclaimed, "Why am I not rich? Why am I not a man of fortune?"—"How many daily utter that same wish!" said Paul: "all cannot be wealthy."—"If I had but a thousand pounds!" cried Clement impatiently pacing the room. "Two hundred would suffice," said Paul, "if you are thinking only of Fanny."—"Certainly, of whom, or of what else should I be thinking?"—"Well, then—here, in a postscript"—"The best part of a lady's letter," interposed Clement. "Here, my mother says, that Frank Pelham might form a very advantageous engagement, could he but command two hundred pounds."—"I will go beg, borrow or steal, the sum!" cried Clement. "Better go earn it!" said Paul. "Pshaw, don't talk of impossibilities!"—"Improbable, difficult, not impossible, brother."—"Yes, yes! quite impossible."—"By no means."—"Oh! then quickly, very quickly; dear Paul, instruct me, teach me, how to earn this precious sum!"
Paul smiled at his brother's eagerness; and then said, with a tone of deep feeling, "All our time is not occupied: some trifle could be gained by the employment of our leisure."—"Trifle, indeed!"—"However small, still it would be something."—"Nothing!"—"Nay, now, Clement, you do not speak with your usual good calculation. Something cannot be nothing."—"Yes, nothing!—I persist in it; nothing, as compared to what is needed."—"Your pardon, brother; in our circumstances, every guinea has its value."—"But the whole, the best, of our time is fully occupied."—"The best, but not the whole of it; our evenings for instance."—"Evenings of some three or four hours; and we harassed by our day's labour, wearied and half asleep!"—"Oh! but the hope of doing good would keep us awake, wide awake!"—"Oh! ridiculous! I shall think of nothing so silly!"—"Well then, what say you to trying to save a little?"—"Trying—accurately spoken, brother of mine—you may try; but to save—and out of a handsome income of one hundred and forty pounds a year!—Oh! rare device!"
Clement laughed aloud; Paul laughed too, but avowed his intention of trying to earn, and trying to save. His brother ridiculed what he termed his preposterous folly, and gave himself up to gayer fancies.
"If somebody would die, and leave me a handsome legacy!"—"We have not a rich friend or relative in the world."—"Oh! but some rich stranger! Such things have been:—why, pray, might it not happen to me?"—"I am sure I don't know," said Paul quietly. "And then Fanny, dear Fanny.—Heigho! for wedding favours! All should be right then."—"But now—" said Paul. "Now!—ay—that's the evil—now—I can do nothing."—"You mean, now you must do something, since fortune seems not likely to do aught for you." The brothers paused, and pondered. Clement suddenly started up: "I have it!—I have it!—I know what must be done!—I have saved a little money—I will go and buy a lottery ticket."—"Clement, my dear Clement, do nothing so unwise!" said Paul earnestly, as he saw his brother prepare to go out. "Stay me not, Paul!" exclaimed Clement vehemently, "unless you can suggest wiser means."—"Any measure were wiser."—"I think not so. Let go my arm."—"Brother, hear me but a moment."—"I have been listening to you this hour, good Paul," cried Clement, rushing forwards. "But what I would urge, was my father's dying exhortation." Clement stood still, and looked attentive. Paul continued: "Do you not remember, as we watched him during the last cruel night—do you not remember, he said, 'Boys, depend upon your own exertions; harass not yourselves with chances of fortune; nor rely on help from others.'"—"Yes, I remember those words! I remember, too, he bade us succour our mother and sisters."—"See you not, the last command is involved in the first?"—"Say, rather, the last command supersedes every other."—"It does; and therefore would I counsel you to do that which shall best enable you to fulfil it."
Clement had a very warm heart, and a very clear head; but he had too often indulged himself in yielding to the impulse of the moment, to allow of much self-command. He was too apt to act first, and reflect afterwards; and thus often prepared for himself many disappointments and vexations. The brothers were twins. There subsisted between them the similarity of persons and minds so frequent in those so related. Paul had equally quick feeling, and healthy judgment. The only perceptible difference was caused by his different mode of self-management. Aware of his impetuous temper, he had habituated himself to reflect before he acted.
Clement flew away to the Lottery office: Paul sat down to think. His cogitations were long; for, alas! it was too true, that his situation was humble, his power limited, his resources few; but he had health, he had ability, he had energy; his case was not hopeless; and when Clement returned to the apartment Paul had decided on his future plan of conduct.
The bounding step, the flushed cheek, and bright eye, with which Clement entered, shewed his commission had been accomplished. The excitement was beyond pleasure, for it was agitation; and the doubt of how far he had done well, came across his gay anticipation and somewhat damped delight.
Paul was not one to give advice, when advice was too late; or to boast of having warned when that warning had been neglected. He saw the ticket, or rather quarter ticket, for they were just then at an enormous premium the high prizes all undrawn, and the quarter had cost ten pounds.
"The ten pounds—" "I had prepared for my mother's Christmas gift, even so Paul; but now, perhaps, she will have ten hundred."—"Perhaps?"—"Oh! my dear Paul, do not so needlessly, so cruelly, damp my ardour!"—"I will not; you shall never again hear a word from me on the subject."—"Thank you, brother."—"But my mother must be prepared for the probable,—forgive me, Clement,—for the possible non-arrival of her usual Christmas-box:—for, if you cannot send yours, I certainly will not send mine."—"Generous Paul! You would spare me all mortifying comparisons."—"My dear Clement, we will both do the best we can; and I will tell you what are my projects: to reduce my expenditure as much as I can; and to seek more employment."—"Reduce your expenditure! My good brother, how is that to be done? Our present system is abundantly modest."—"But might be rendered more so."—"As how?"—"In a cheaper quarter, I could obtain cheaper accommodation."—"We pay eighty pounds per annum here; little enough for food and lodgement."—"Yes, but here we have superfluities."—"Superfluities! In what may they consist?" exclaimed Clement, laughing immoderately.
Paul, nothing daunted, replied:—"We have too good a table,—too good a chamber—and one meal too much."—"Speak for yourself, Paul—not one of these excesses do I feel."—"Well, then, I will speak for myself: I will seek a humbler dwelling, a humbler board and do without our last meal."—"Without tea! Oh! you Goth! 'tis the pleasantest of our repasts. The bubbling urn, the blazing fire, the buttered toast, bright glances and sunny smiles. Oh! Paul! I cannot give up our cheerful tea parties."—"Pleasant, I grant you; but not necessary: and just now, you know, we are cutting close."—"Close, with a vengeance, when you cut out our tea and toast! And how many pence does your honour calculate, these shavings,—I should say, savings, will save?"—"Pounds, I should think."—"Try, my good fellow,—by all means, try! For my part, I shall keep well here; follow the Italian motto—Sto bene, sto qui."—"You are making a sad blunder about that oft repeated epitaph."—"So I am: upon consideration, it is more likely to suit you; for, now I remember, it may be versioned thus:—"I was well—I desired to be better—and I am here," alias, in the church-yard—just where you will be, Paul, if you follow up this starving labouring system."—"I shall speak to my landlady, this very day."—"I do not envy you the scene—she will be terribly angry, and you will look horridly sheepish."—"Angry she may be; but is her anger to prevent me doing what I ought to do?"—"Certainly not valiant Signor! But, as I am a lover of peace and quietness, I beg to be excused seconding the motion."
The landlady was terribly angry. Paul was regular in his payments—orderly in his habits—gentlemanly in his manners. His merits drew upon him the good woman's ire; and, certainly, he had no pleasant scene with her. But steady and resolved, her warmth "passed by him as the idle wind." He gave her all the dues of justice and courtesy—proper warning and civil demeanour; and then, though she continued to look offended, he paid her, and departed.
Clement, more governed by her violence than he cared to own, remained in her house; and thus, for the first time in their lives, the brothers dwelt apart.
Paul's new abode was sufficiently homely. A chamber so small, that, by ingenious contrivance alone, could he store into it his few books, his desk, his clothes. Furniture, of the simplest description;—a bed, a table, a chair. A window looking upon roofs and chimneys; and a dark narrow staircase, creaking beneath his feet. What were the recommendations? Not cheapness only. No: Paul was not penny wise and pound foolish. He knew, a respectable abode, and respectable hosts, were necessary to his reputation. He principally chose his lodging, because the worthy couple keeping it, had long been known to his family.
Their better rooms were permanently occupied; and the small apartment he now engaged he had before deemed unfit. But his views were changed: he knew his good hostess would conscientiously help him to economize; and this being his great object, just then, he yielded up all personal indulgence for its attainment.
It was attained:—Paul was surprised at the difference of his expenditure. Excepting the tea, which he rigorously interdicted, he lived as well as ever he had done, and for two-thirds the expense. He laid his first month's charges before Clement. Clement only laughed at the petty reduction. "Oh yes! I see you save a few pounds."—"Few! more than twenty, Clement, in the year!"—"Well! and what is that? A mere trifle towards two hundred."—"Yet something towards it."—"Yes; but nothing to what my ticket may bring me."—"May bring. Of my money I am assured."—"Well, well, my good fellow! follow your own plan; I shall follow mine. We both aim at the same point, and we shall see who attains it."—"But, my dear Clement—"—"Now, Paul, don't begin preaching. I am as old and as fit as you to govern myself. I did not come here for a lecture: I merely called to ask, if you would go to the play to-night."—"To the play! You have silver tickets?"—"Yes, my boy! silver tickets; for my shillings will purchase them."—"And how can you be so extravagant?"—"I go very seldom—just into the pit—the expense is nothing—and Drury Lane is my delight."
Paul looked grave—Clement laughed, or rather tried to laugh; for his conscience was not quite at peace: it was therefore he had called, in hopes his brother, by accompanying him, would have sanctioned, and thereby pacified his secret remorse. He went to the play: thought of his mother, and did not enjoy it: joined some gay associates, to drive away thought: adjourned with them to an oyster shop: spent more money than he cared to reckon, and returned home, tired, cross, and minus seven shillings.
This did not happen often; but it happened often enough to draw from Clement's purse some pounds in the course of the year. And then his dress:—the coat in which Paul could appear at the office, would not at all suit Clement in Drury Lane; so, one coat, at least, swelled his taylor's bill for his theatrical beauism. We will say nothing of gloves dirted, hats crushed, and umbrellas lost.
Paul sought in vain for extra employment. His evenings were so wholly and uninterruptedly his own, that he could have effected much business. He intimated his wish to all who were likely to assist him.—No profitable occupation could be obtained. Clement, though sorry for his brother's disappointment, could not, or more properly speaking, would not resist taunting him with his false expectations. "Almost as bad as my prizes, hey! Paul."—"Not quite," answered Paul.—"Your time, however, has been equally wasted in delusive anticipation."—"Your pardon, Clement. My leisure has not been entirely unprofitable. I have studied book-keeping, and made myself master of the French language."—"And what good can this do you?"—"They can do me no harm. Knowledge of any kind can scarcely do harm; at least, my time has been spent innocently in their acquirement." Clement blushed, and was silent. Play tickets—concert tickets—oyster shops—rose before his fancy; and he could not call his evenings innocently spent.
Three months elapsed, and Paul continued unsuccessful. But it is hardly possible, even in this disappointing life, for patient perseverance in well-doing, to pass utterly unregarded. Paul's regular and earnest attention to his duties—his meritorious desire for farther avocation—the motive for that desire; for he kept it no secret,—why should he?—all these circumstances worked together eventually for his good. A gentleman in his office—a government office—talked of wanting an amanuensis, and Paul was recommended to him. When the accommodation lay before him, it appeared (no rare occurrence) that the gentleman found out he could do without an amanuensis. It was said the tiny word salary had effected, this magical change; and, certainly, of all the causes that work miracles in this miraculous world, not one is perhaps more pregnant of consequences than the meanest of them all—pounds, shillings, and pence.
The gentleman, however, talked glibly of his amanuensis; and how much the situation had been desired. "A young fellow—a gentlemanly young fellow—in the office, would have been mighty glad of it."—"And you engaged him?" observed one of his hearers.—"Why, no; I am so very particular. I cannot get exactly what I want."—"Talents, industry, integrity, and no pay!" whispered one who knew him well. The former respondent turned to the whisperer, and from him obtained an account so favourable to Paul, that he at once recommended him to an acquaintance of his, just then seeking additional aid. Paul was cheered with the prospect, spoke of it in all the buoyant hilarity of youth, and called on the merchant with his letter of introduction. The merchant's partner had, the night before, engaged an assistant! "Teazing disappointment!" cried Paul.—"Like a blank in the lottery," archly observed Clement.—"No," said Paul: "for even the disappointment may lead to some favourable result."—"Teach patience! Very true, Paul."—"Even in that, do good; but what I meant, was, that benevolent persons, hearing of my wish and my disappointment, might be instructed how to serve me."—"This earth being so loaded with good men!"—"There is a fair sprinkling of them, among all classes."—"Of which I have had notable proof. Do not be angry, Paul; but I have been doing all in my power to borrow the two hundred pounds. Not a farthing can I obtain."—"How should you, when you have no assurance of payment to offer!"—"But were it never paid,—to a rich man, the paltry sum!"—"Fair and softly, Clement! You talked of borrowing; and borrowing implies repaying."—"Ah! you are a quiz, dear Paul, and ever will be; so, good bye."
The merchant regretted the disappointment he had caused: he called upon Paul—saw him at his studies,—called again, when he was not at home, and heard traits of his character from his host and hostess. He became interested, exerted himself,—obtained an engagement;—and Paul, in the fourth month of his search, found himself installed in the desired avocation. The remuneration was not large, but it was not to be scorned; for eight months' close nightly study brought him in the sum of fifty pounds.
"Fifty pounds, and as much more the amount of my savings!—Half the desired sum! Ah! Fanny—ah! my dear mother!"
One twelvemonth had been passed in the laborious accumulation! But it was accumulated! How much sweeter for the toil and self-denial it had cost, let no one rashly measure. He who has tried and proved can only know.
Next came the happiness, the exquisite happiness, of presenting the money to the dear home circle. Paul was seated, lost in agreeable reasonings, when Clement rushed into the room. "A prize! A prize! Dear Paul, a prize!"—"Not before this?"—"Oh, I have bought and sold, and exchanged: I cannot tell you the long story: and now it is a prize."—"Of how much?"—"I know not. Talbot heard it announced a prize; but will not tell me the amount. Come with me to the office;—let us together hear the good news!"
They went to the office,—the ticket was a prize of—twenty pounds! Clement burst into a fury of rage, and rushed forth, he knew not whither. Paul hastened to follow, and pacify him. This was no easy task. On the certain anticipation of a high prize, Clement had indulged himself in countless petty luxuries. Dress,—public amusements,—pleasures of the table. In a moment, he saw himself hopeless and pennyless. He abused lotteries, and prizes,—cursed his rash folly, and railed against all mankind. "I am the most unfortunate dog in the world!—Never successful, even in a virtuous design!" He paused not to consider if the means were as meritorious as the aim. "Not even to help my poor mother, my dear sister, am I fortunate! Luck, I see, goes by Fate,—I am not doomed to be lucky! Even this detestable five pounds, so miserably gained, I owe to my tailor!"—"Be thankful you have it for him!" said Paul. "The ticket might have been a blank."—"I wish it had—and then the thing would have been complete." Clement laughed bitterly.
By degrees, Paul succeeded in calming him; and, a few days afterwards, gently suggested what he had collected, and proposed that the money should be remitted in their joint names.—"No, no, no!" Clement would permit no such arrangement. "Accept thanks he had not earned,—impossible!"—"But, twins as we are, so alike in all points, the act of one is the act of the other," argued Paul. Clement shook his head. "Would that we were alike,—that we had been alike,—and then, instead of one hundred pounds, we should have had two, for I could have saved, earned as much as you."—"Perhaps you might not have obtained a situation, as I luckily did," said Paul.—"Yes, I should: I should have got something, had I persevered as you did."—"Come, come!" said Paul; "there is no use in talking of the past, of what is quite beyond recal. Let us turn our minds to the future. Next year, you can pay me; so let me lend you fifty pounds now."—"Generous, ingenious brother!" cried Clement; "I should not be worthy of your liberal confidence, were I to accept it on such terms. No, Paul: this year, I suffer rightly by my folly; next year, I will deserve a better fate."
Paul tried, but in vain, to alter this resolution; so it was settled that he should himself take the money to his mother, and, in his own name and Clement's, promise the advance of another hundred pounds next year.
"In the mean while," said Clement, "I will commence my plan of operations; and when you return to town, dear Paul, you shall find me in your cheap house, toiling like a slave."
Paul's pleasure was much lessened by going home without his brother; but he felt that this trip might be painful to Clement, as every incident would remind him, that he might have served, but had not served, his family.
We will go with Paul to his mother's: it is pleasant to look upon happiness, especially when it has been earned by virtue.
It was a dark and stormy night, when Paul drove into the inn-yard of his native town. He jumped, however, lightly from his seat on the coach-box, and, seizing his umbrella in one hand, and his carpet bag in the other, he paced down the street. Nothing could be more uncomfortable than the walk: a cold wind, a heavy rain, a muddy path,—passengers jostling him, dogs barking at him, and posts coming every moment in his way, as if they stood there on purpose to teaze him. To not one of these plagues was Paul conscious: he saw nothing,—felt nothing,—heard nothing. His mind was full and busy; a smile was on his lips, and a thousand delightful thoughts possessed his heart.
Paul & Clement.
Pubd. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, St. Pauls Church Yd.
He reached his mother's humble door,—knocked,—entered! At once, an universal hubbub arose: little Kitty was the first to discover him. "Brother Paul! Brother Paul!" and she was in his arms, and clinging to his neck, in an instant. Fanny, with a step scarcely less swift, sprang forward, and was encircled by one arm, which he had disengaged from Kitty. His mother put down her spectacles: "My son Paul! And Clement! Ah! he is not with you!—What has happened to him?"—"Nothing, dearest mother—nothing!—He is well and happy, and sends you a thousand loves," said Paul, gently disengaging himself from his sisters, and embracing his mother.—"You are sure!—quite sure he is safe and well?"—"On my honour mother!"—"God be thanked; then I am quite happy!" said the old lady, bursting into tears.
Who shall number the questions asked and answered,—the tender looks and kisses interchanged—the exclamations, wonderings, and bursts of thankings! "How well you look, my son!"—"And how fat and saucy!" said Fanny.—"And how Fanny is grown! I never thought she would have been so—pretty," said Paul archly, yet dropping his voice as he uttered the last word. His mother thought "beautiful" would have suited her Fanny better; and even that would not have half done justice to her charms. "And am not I grown, brother?" said little Kitty, shoving herself between her brother's knees, and holding up her head—"Am I not very much grown and improved?"—"I do not know who is most charming, and most dear to me!" cried Paul, fondly kissing the rosy child, and placing her on his knee. "Do not plague him, Kitty, my dear!" said her mother.—"Oh, love never plagues any body," said Kitty, pressing herself closely to her brother.—"And I know who says, people can never have enough of love—Mr. Frank Pelham,"—observed the child, with a glance at her sister. Her mother frowned; and, sending Fanny out of the room, to hasten tea, took Miss Kitty to task. "I told you, Kitty, I would not allow you to name Frank Pelham every moment in this way! But your brother's arms, I suppose, you think, will shelter you now, say what you will." Paul certainly folded the offender as if to shelter her from all harm; whilst he said: "And why, my dear mother, is Frank's name interdicted, when once it was so familiar? Has he displeased you?"—"Far from it, very far from it, Paul! His conduct is all I could wish it to be; but there is so little prospect of his ever being one of our family, that I think it right, for dear Fanny's sake, to wean ourselves from him."—"Does he never visit you?"—"Oftener than I could wish, Paul."—"And why may not some happy chance—"—"Do not talk nonsense, my son! We ought never to depend upon chance."—"True, mother. I ought to have said, why might not some fortunate exertion—" His mother interrupted him: "My dear Paul, we have already made every possible exertion,—I may say, every possible sacrifice: but the sum is so large—two hundred pounds!"—"Is that all that is required?" inquired Paul earnestly.—"All! And enough too, I think," replied his mother, half astonished at what she deemed his strange wilfulness. "Because I was thinking, my dear mother, that perhaps some farther funds might be needed."—"For Fanny's outfit; and their first establishment. Yes, a trifle would be wanted for these; but (lowering her voice,) I have provided for these matters." As Paul was about to speak, the old lady begged him to be silent, till he had heard all she had to say. "You know, Frank's uncle more than half promised to assist him. Well, for one whole year, he has gone on delaying and demurring, and keeping us in a state of painful suspense. Last week, the gentleman with whom Frank is to engage, declared he would wait no longer; so, Frank's uncle was obliged to give an answer. It came this morning, saying he was sorry, very sorry, and concerned; but he could neither give nor lend a shilling."—"The wretched miser!" exclaimed Paul. "Yes, miser indeed! and he rolling in wealth! But, no matter; he can never enjoy one farthing of it, with so narrow a mind."—"Well," said Paul, "there is one comfort always for the poor, that what little they have, they spend, and thus enjoy."—"But, hush! Not another word: here comes Fanny;" and the old lady began to prepare her son's tea. Paul was longing to open his happy commission, but did not know how: he had nothing but winks and whispers from his mother; so he thought he would speak at her, as she would not let him speak to her. "Clement and I," said he, as if half-speaking to himself,—"we often amuse ourselves with building castles in the air; and fancying all manner of wonders. We are always for being very rich, and having plenty of money to spend and to give."—"I doubt not, you have money enough to give away, in your fancyings," said his mother, pouring out the milk.—"And then we always think what we would do, for our dear folks at home."—"I dare say—poor fellows! Giving pounds, where you have not pence," said the old lady, portioning out the sugar.—"And yesterday, we drew out a paper. I will shew it to you," said Paul, taking out his pocket-book.—"Not now, my dear boy, not now, filling up our table with your conjuring papers! Don't you see, how small the tray is! Bless the boy, how he is littering every place! Why, Paul, you are upsetting the tea cups!"—"I beg your pardon, mother; I am very sorry for the tea cups, but I just wanted to shew you this slip of paper."—"Hieroglyphics, I suppose,—I dare say it is all very clever, my dear, but I can neither see nor understand."—"Put on your spectacles then dearest mother—pray do,—just to read this bit of paper," continued the pertinacious Paul. "Now, Paul, don't be so very disagreeable!—And you laughing at my telling you, that you are making yourself disagreeable! Why child! what is the matter with you?—I never saw you so before!"—"You never did, indeed, my dearest mother!" cried Paul; "for you never before saw me so perfectly, perfectly happy!" And his lip quivered, and his cheek flushed, and the tears stood in his eyes.
The old lady put down the tea-pot and gazed upon her son. Fanny snatched two papers from his hand, and read aloud their titles. "A Bank of England note for one hundred pounds, and a promissory note for one hundred pounds!"—"How obtained?" said the anxious and conscientious mother. "Honestly,—every farthing honestly!" cried Paul.—"Dearest mother! Rely always on the integrity of your sons."—"And are these yours?" again asked the timid parent.—"No,—my own dear mother, they are yours!" exclaimed Paul, throwing himself into her arms.
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset-street, Fleet-street.