“Paul,” said she, “Squire Conant is my brother.”
“Your brother!” repeated he in great surprise. “Then why does he allow you to live here? He is rich enough to take care of you.”
“It is a long story,” said the old lady, sadly. “All that you will be interested to know is that I married against the wishes of my family. My husband died and I was left destitute. My brother has never noticed me since.”
“It is a great shame,” said Paul.
“We won't judge him, Paul. Have you fixed upon any time to go?”
“I shall wait a few days till I get stronger. Can you tell me how far it is to New York?”
“O, a great distance; a hundred miles at least. You can't think of going so far as that?”
“I think it would be the best plan,” said Paul. “In a great city like New York there must be a great many things to do which I can't do here. I don't feel strong enough to work on a farm. Besides, I don't like it. O, it must be a fine thing to live in a great city. Then too,” pursued Paul, his face lighting up with the hopeful confidence of youth, “I may become rich. If I do, Aunt Lucy, I will build a fine house, and you shall come and live with me.”
Aunt Lucy had seen more of life than Paul, and was less sanguine. The thought came to her that her life was already declining while his was but just begun, and in the course of nature, even if his bright dreams should be realized, she could hardly hope to live long enough to see it. But of this she said nothing. She would not for the world have dimmed the brightness of his anticipations by the expression of a single doubt.
“I wish you all success, Paul, and I thank you for wishing me to share in your good fortune. God helps those who help themselves, and he will help you if you only deserve it. I shall miss you very much when you are gone. It will seem more lonely than ever.”