About half a mile from the village in the bleakest and most desolate
part of the town, stood the Poor House. It was a crazy old building of
extreme antiquity, which, being no longer considered fit for an ordinary
dwelling-house, had been selected as a suitable residence for the town's
poor. It was bleak and comfortless to be sure, but on that very account
had been purchased at a trifling expense, and that was, of course, a
primary consideration. Connected with the house were some dozen acres of
rough-looking land, plentifully overspread with stones, which might have
filled with despair the most enterprising agriculturist. However, it had
this recommendation at least, that it was quite in character with the
buildings upon it, which in addition to the house already described,
consisted of a barn of equal antiquity and a pig pen.

This magnificent domain was under the superintendence of Mr. Nicholas
Mudge, who in consideration of taking charge of the town paupers had
the use of the farm and buildings, rent free, together with a stipulated
weekly sum for each of the inmates.

"Well, Paul," said Mr. Mudge, as they approached the house, in a tone
which was meant to be encouraging, "this is goin' to be your home. How
do you like it?"

Thus addressed, Paul ventured a glance around him.

"I don't know," said he, doubtfully; "it don't look very pleasant."

"Don't look very pleasant!" repeated Mr. Mudge in a tone of mingled
amazement and indignation. "Well, there's gratitude for you. After the
town has been at the expense of providin' a nice, comfortable home for