“Let me see,” said the post-master, putting on his spectacles; “yes, I believe there is. Post-marked at New York, too. I didn't know you had any correspondents there.”
“It's probably from the Mayor of New York,” said Ben, in a tone of comical importance, “asking my advice about laying out Central Park.”
“Probably it is,” said the postmaster. “It's a pretty thick letter,—looks like an official document.”
By this time, Ben, who was really surprised by the reception of the letter, had opened it. It proved to be from our hero, Paul Prescott, and inclosed one for Aunt Lucy.
“Mr. Crosby,” said Ben, suddenly, addressing the postmaster, “you remember about Paul Prescott's running away from the Poorhouse?”
“Yes, I didn't blame the poor boy a bit. I never liked Mudge, and they say his wife is worse than he.”
“Well, suppose the town should find out where he is, could they get him back again?”
“Bless you! no. They ain't so fond of supporting paupers. If he's able to earn his own living, they won't want to interfere with him.”
“Well, this letter is from him,” said Ben. “He's found a pleasant family in New York, who have adopted him.”
“I'm glad of it,” said Mr. Crosby, heartily. “I always liked him. He was a fine fellow.”