“That was what I wanted to ask you, Paul. It will be a comfort to me to feel that there is some hope of the debt being paid at some future day.”
“Then don't let it trouble you any longer, father. The debt shall be mine, and I will pay it.”
Again a shadow passed over the sick man's face, “Poor boy,” he said, “why should I burden your young life with such a load? You will have to struggle hard enough as it is. No, Paul, recall your promise. I don't want to purchase comfort at such a price.”
“No, father,” said Paul sturdily, “it is too late now. I have made the promise and I mean to stick to it. Besides, it will give me something to live for. I am young—I may have a great many years before me. For thirteen years you have supported me. It is only right that I should make what return I can. I'll keep my promise, father.”
“May God help and prosper you, my boy,” said Mr. Prescott, solemnly. “You've been a good son; I pray that you may grow up to be a good man. But, my dear, I feel tired. I think I will try to go to sleep.”
Paul smoothed the comforter, adjusting it carefully about his father's neck, and going to the door went out in search of some wood to place upon the fire. Their scanty stock of firewood was exhausted, and Paul was obliged to go into the woods near by, to obtain such loose fagots as he might find upon the ground.
He was coming back with his load when his attention was drawn by a whistle. Looking up he discovered Ben Newcome approaching him.
“How are you, Paul?”
“Pretty well, Ben.”
“How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time.”