“I don't believe it's the same boy,” declared Aunt Lucy, who was nevertheless unpleasantly affected by the paragraph. She thought it possible that Paul might have yielded to a powerful temptation.
“Perhaps you think I've been making it up. If you don't believe it look at the paper for yourself,” thrusting it into Aunt Lucy's hands.
“Yes,” said the old lady. “I see that the name is the same; but, for all that, there is a mistake somewhere. I do not believe it is the same boy.”
“You don't? Just as if there would be more than one boy of that name. There may be other Prescotts, but there isn't but one Paul Prescott, take my word for it.”
“If it is he,” said Aunt Lucy, indignantly, “is it Christianlike to rejoice over the poor boy's misfortune?”
“Misfortune!” retorted Mrs. Mudge with a sneer; “you call it a misfortune to steal, then! I call it a crime.”
“It's often misfortune that drives people to it, though,” continued the old lady, looking keenly at Mrs. Mudge. “I have known cases where they didn't have that excuse.”
Mrs. Mudge colored.
“Go back to your room,” said she, sharply; “and don't stay here accusing me and Mr. Mudge of unchristian conduct. You're the most troublesome pauper we have on our hands; and I do wish the town would provide for you somewhere else.”
“So do I,” sighed the old lady to herself, though she did not think fit to give audible voice to her thoughts.