Paul very innocently answered in the negative, thereby affording Mr. Mudge not a little amusement.
“Well, that’s lucky,” he said, “because our best front chamber’s occupied just now. We’d have got it ready for you if you’d only wrote a week ago to tell us you were coming. You can just stay round here,” he said in a different tone as he was about leaving the room, “Mrs. Mudge will maybe want you to do something for her. You can sit down till she calls on you.”
It was washing day with Mrs. Mudge, and of course she was extremely busy. The water was to be brought from a well in the yard, and to this office Paul was at once delegated. It was no easy task, the full pails tugging most unmercifully at his arms. However, this was soon over, and Mrs. Mudge graciously gave him permission to go into the adjoining room, and make acquaintance with his fellow-boarders.
There were nine of them in all, Paul, the new-comer making the tenth. They were all advanced in years, except one young woman, who was prevented by mental aberration from supporting herself outside the walls of the Institution.
Of all present, Paul’s attention was most strongly attracted towards one who appeared more neatly and scrupulously attired than any of the rest.
Aunt Lucy Lee, or plain Aunt Lucy, for in her present abode she had small use for her last name, was a benevolent-looking old lady, who both in dress and manners was distinguished from her companions. She rose from her knitting, and kindly took Paul by the hand. Children are instinctive readers of character, and Paul, after one glance at her benevolent face, seated himself contentedly beside her.
“I suppose,” said the old lady, socially, “you’ve come to live with us. We must do all we can to make you comfortable. Your name is Paul Prescott, I think Mrs. Mudge said.”
“Yes, ma’am” answered Paul, watching the rapid movement of the old lady’s fingers.
“Mine is Aunt Lucy,” she continued, “that is what everybody calls me. So now we know each other, and shall soon be good friends, I hope. I suppose you have hardly been here long enough to tell how you shall like it.”
Paul confessed that thus far he did not find it very pleasant.
“No, I dare say not,” said Aunt Lucy, “I can’t say I think it looks very attractive myself. However, it isn’t wholly the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge. They can’t afford to do much better, for the town allows them very little.”
Aunt Lucy’s remarks were here interrupted by the apparition of the worthy landlady at the door.
“Dinner’s ready, folks,” said that lady, with little ceremony, “and you must come out quick if you want any, for I’m drove with work, and can’t be hindered long.”
The summons was obeyed with alacrity, and the company made all haste to the dining-room, or rather the kitchen, for it was here that the meals were eaten.
In the center of the room was set a table without a cloth, a table-cloth being considered a luxury quite superfluous. Upon this were placed several bowls of thin, watery liquid, intended for soup, but which, like city milk, was diluted so as hardly to be distinguishable. Beside each bowl was a slice of bread.
Such was the bill of fare.
“Now, folks, the sooner you fall to the better,” exclaimed the energetic Mrs. Mudge, who was one of those driving characters, who consider any time spent at the table beyond ten minutes as so much time wasted.
The present company appeared to need no second invitation. Their scanty diet had the positive advantage of giving them a good appetite; otherwise the quality of their food might have daunted them.
Paul took his place beside Aunt Lucy. Mechanically he did as the rest, carrying to his mouth a spoonful of the liquid. But his appetite was not sufficiently accustomed to Poor House regime to enable him to relish its standing dish, and he laid down his spoon with a disappointed look.
He next attacked the crust of bread, but found it too dry to be palatable.