Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.
Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the world. No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away from the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his way back again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.
As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!
Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.
“Paul,” said the Squire, with measured deliberation.
“Do you mean me, sir?” asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name had been called.
“Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?” demanded the Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.
“Paul,” pursued Squire Newcome, “have you thought of your future destination?”
“No, sir,” said Paul, “I suppose I shall live here.”
“That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose you are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods.”