He did all that he
did well, however, and he was thoroughly trustworthy.
Three years went by. Elnathan was fifteen years old, and Christopher
Lightenhome was seventy-one.
The little room had always been clean. There had been each day enough
nourishing food to eat, though the old man, remembering Adelizy's
prediction, had set his face like flint against even the slightest
indulgence in table luxuries. And, although there had been days when
Elnathan had recklessly brought home a ten-cent pie and half a dozen
doughnuts from the baker's as his share of provision for their common
dinner, Mr. Lightenhome felt that he had managed well. And yet there were
only fifty dollars of the original six hundred left, and the poorhouse was
looming once more on the old man's sight. He sighed. An expression of
patience grew on the kind old face. He felt it to be a great pity that six
hundred dollars could not be made to go farther. And there was a
wistfulness in the glance he cast upon the boy. Elnathan was, as yet, only
half awake. The little room and the taste of honest independence had done
their best.
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