His head sunk in
thought, and his hands in his trousers' pockets, he sauntered on in the
wintry air while he mentally calculated how long Mr. Lightenhome's funds
would last. "Not any later than next Christmas he will be in the poorhouse
again." He walked only a few steps. Then he stopped. "Will he?" he cried.
"Not if I know it."
This was a big resolve for a boy of fifteen, and the next morning Elnathan
himself thought so. He thought so even to the extent of considering a
retreat from the high task which he had the previous day laid before
himself. Then he looked at Mr. Lightenhome, who had aged perceptibly in the
last hours. Evidently he had lain awake in the night calculating how long
his money would last. The sight of him nerved the boy afresh. "I am not
going back on it," he told himself, vigorously. "I am just going to dig out
all the gold there is in me. Keeping Uncle Chris out of the poorhouse is
worth it."
But he did not confide in the old man. "He would say it was too big a job
for me, and talk about how I ought to get some schooling," concluded the
boy.
Now it came about that the room, which, while it had not been the
habitation of lords, had been the abode of kingly kindness, became a silent
place.
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