"I hope not, too. I was going to say that I wish I could help you to
some kind of work. If you will come home with me, you shall be welcome
to a dinner, and perhaps I may be able to think of something for you."

Paul gladly prepared to follow his new acquaintance.

"What is your name?" inquired the sexton.

"Paul Prescott."

"That sounds like a good name. I suppose you haven't got much money?"

"Only twelve cents."

"Bless me! only twelve cents. Poor boy! you are indeed poor."

"But I can work," said Paul, spiritedly. "I ought to be able to earn my
living."

"Yes, yes, that's the way to feel. Heaven helps those who help
themselves."

When they were fairly out of the church, Paul had an opportunity of
observing his companion's external appearance. He was an elderly man,
with harsh features, which would have been forbidding, but for a certain
air of benevolence which softened their expression.

As Paul walked along, he related, with less of detail, the story which
is already known to the reader. The sexton said little except in the