had said he was a runaway convict, and so she would have believed
him to the end.

Ellen had long ago forgotten that she had said anything of the kind; and
though she still held her nose rather high when Paul was near, she would
have answered for his honesty as readily as for that of her own brothers.
But hers had not been the charity that thinketh no evil, and her idle
words had been like thistle-down, lightly sent forth, but when they had
lighted, bearing thorns and prickles.

Those thorns were galling poor Paul. Nobody could guess what his
glimpses of that happy, peaceful, loving family were to him. They seemed
to him like a softer, better kind of world, and he looked at their fair
faces and fresh, well-ordered garments with a sort of reverence; a kind
look or greeting from Mrs. King, a mere civil answer from Ellen, those
two sights of the white spirit-looking Alfred, were like the rays of
light that shone into his dark hay-loft. Sometimes he heard them singing
their hymns and psalms on a Sunday evening, and then the tears would come
into his eyes as he leant over the gate to listen. And, as if it was
because Ellen kept at the greatest distance from him, he set more store
by her words and looks than those of any one else, was always glad when
she served him in the shop, and used to watch her on Sunday, looking as
fresh as a flower in her neat plain dress.

And now to hear that she not only thought meanly of him, which he knew
well enough, but thought him a thief, a runaway, and an impostor coming
about with false tales, was like a weight upon his sunken spirits, and
seemed to take away all the little heart hard usage had left him, made
him feel as if suspicious eyes were on him whenever he went for his bit
of bread, and took away all his peace in looking at the cottage.

He did once take courage to say to Harold, 'Did your sister really say I
had run away from gaol?'

'Oh, nobody minds what our Ellen says,' was the answer.

'But did she say so?'

'I don't know, I dare say she did. She's so fine, that she thinks no one
that comes up-stairs in dirty shoes worth speaking to. I'm sure she's
the plague of my life--always at me.'

That was not much comfort for Paul. He had other friends, to be sure.
All the boys in the place liked him, and were very angry with the way the
farmer treated him, and greatly to their credit, they admired his
superior learning instead of being jealous of it. Mrs. Hayward, the
s