Part 7 (1/2)

”What's that?” Rod asked, much surprised.

”I do not know,” was the reply. ”Some one left it here this morning.”

Then Rod remembered that he had heard a knock, and the teacher had gone to the door, returning shortly with something in her hand. He had not seen the visitor, and so had soon forgotten all about the incident.

Going back to his scat, he untied the string, and unwrapped the brown paper. Then great was his surprise to find a dainty lunch lying within. There were several slices of choice home-made bread, two pieces of cake, a large wedge of pumpkin-pie, and a fine rosy apple.

For a few moments Rod sat staring at the feast before him. Who could have sent it? he wondered, Then all at once he remembered. It was the apple which solved the problem, and he knew that there was only one tree in the neighbourhood which produced such fruit as that. He had often seen the tree from the road, but had never dared to venture near, as it was too close to Captain Josh's house. He knew now where the lunch had come from, and it made him so excited that for awhile he forgot to eat as he sat there thinking it all over.

When Rod went home from school, Mrs. Royal noticed the crimson mark upon his cheek where the whip had struck him. She asked no questions, however, for she wanted Rod to tell of his own free will how it happened. It was after he was in bed, that the boy looked up inquiringly into Mrs. Royal's face, as she stood by his side before bidding him good-night.

”Grandma,” he began, ”what is a pauper?”

”Oh, it is a person who has no home, and no money, and has to live upon others,” was the reply.

”Am I a pauper, grandma?” and the boy's face flushed.

”You a pauper!” Mrs. Royal exclaimed, as she sat down upon a chair by the side of the bed. ”What makes you ask such a question, dear?

Whoever put such an idea into your head?”

”Tom Dunker said that I am a pauper.”

”He did! When did he tell you that?”

”To-day, just before he hit me with his whip and made the mark upon my cheek.”

”Oh!”

It was all that Mrs. Royal could say. She had become suddenly aroused, feeling sure that something of a serious nature had happened that day.

”Why did he call you a pauper, dear?” she at length asked as calmly as possible.

”'Cause I told him I didn't scare his horses, and make them jump. He got mad, and said I was a pauper, and should be in the Poor House instead of living with decent people. And he said that I didn't know who my father and mother are, and that I would be ashamed of them if I did, that's what he said.”

Into Mrs. Royal's eyes came an expression of deep concern, mingled with indignation.

”You poor boy,” she soothed, taking his little left hand in hers. ”You have had great troubles to-day, have you not?”

”But am I a pauper, grandma?” the boy insisted.

”No, you certainly are not, dear.”

”And I shouldn't be in the Poor House?”

”No, no. You are just where you should be, with grandad and me.”

”And my father and mother are not bad, and I wouldn't be ashamed of them if I saw them?”

”No, not at all. I never heard of your father, so I think he must be dead. But I believe that your mother is a good, n.o.ble woman.”

”Why doesn't she come to see me, then?”