This was the first intimation Grace had received of the possibility that they would be sent to such a home, and it frightened her.
“Oh, Frank!” she exclaimed, “must we go to the poorhouse?”
“No, Grace; don’t be frightened,” said Frank, soothingly. “We will not go.”
“Frank Fowler,” said the deacon, sternly, “cease to mislead your sister.”
“I am not misleading her, sir.”
“Did you not tell her that she would not be obliged to go to the poorhouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then what do you mean by resisting my authority?”
“You have no authority over us. We are not paupers,” and Frank lifted his head proudly, and looked steadily in the face of the deacon.
“You are paupers, whether you admit it or not.”
“We are not,” said the boy, indignantly.
“Where is your money? Where is your property?”
“Here, sir,” said our hero, holding out his hands.
“I have two strong hands, and they will help me make a living for my sister and myself.”
“May I ask whether you expect to live here and use my furniture?”
“I do not intend to, sir. I shall ask no favors of you, neither for Grace nor myself. I am going to leave the house. I only came back to get a few clothes. Mr. Pomeroy has invited Grace and me to stay at his house for a few days. I haven’t decided what I shall do afterward.”
“You will have to go to the poorhouse, then. I have no objection to your making this visit first. It will be a saving to the town.”
“Then, sir, we will bid you good-day. Grace, let us go.”