“That's because I work harder,” said John, rather illogically. The brothers went in to breakfast. But a few minutes elapsed before John reappeared, bearing under his arm a parcel wrapped up in an old newspaper. He came up panting with the haste he had made. “It didn't take you long to eat breakfast,” said Paul. “No, I hurried through it; I thought you would get tired of waiting. And now I'll walk along with you a little ways. But wait here's something for you.” So saying he unrolled the newspaper and displayed a loaf of bread, fresh and warm, which looked particularly inviting to Paul, whose scanty breakfast had by no means satisfied his appetite. Besides this, there was a loaf of molasses ginger-bread, with which all who were born in the country, or know anything of New England housekeeping, are familiar. “There,” said John, “I guess that'll be enough for your dinner.” “But how did you get it without having any questions asked?” inquired our hero. “Oh,” said John, “I asked mother for them, and when she asked what I wanted of them, I told her that I'd answer that question to-morrow. You see I wanted to give you a chance to get off out of the way, though mother wouldn't tell, even if she knew.” “All right,” said Paul, with satisfaction. He could not help looking wistfully at the bread, which looked very inviting to one accustomed to poorhouse fare. “If you wouldn't mind,” he said hesitating, “I would like to eat a little of the bread now.” “Mind, of course not,” said John, breaking off a liberal slice. “Why didn't I think of that before? Walking must have given you a famous appetite.” John looked on with evident approbation, while Paul ate with great apparent appetite. “There,” said he with a sigh of gratification, as he swallowed the last morsel, “I haven't tasted anything so good for a long time.” “Is it as good as Mrs. Mudge's soup?” asked John, mischievously. “Almost,” returned Paul, smiling. We must now leave the boys to pursue their way, and return to the dwelling from which our hero had so unceremoniously taken his departure, and from which danger now threatened him. IX. A CLOUD IN THE MUDGE HORIZON. Mr. Mudge was accustomed to call Paul at five o'clock, to milk the cows and perform other chores. He himself did not rise till an hour later. During Paul's sickness, he was obliged to take his place,--a thing he did not relish overmuch. Now that our hero had recovered, he gladly prepared to indulge himself in an extra nap. “Paul!” called Mr. Mudge from the bottom of the staircase leading up into the attic, “it's five o'clock; time you were downstairs.” Mr. Mudge waited for an answer, but none came. “Paul!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a louder tone, “it's time to get up; tumble out there.” Again there was no answer.