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The next morning after Paul's father had gone, the lad arose, dressed himself and waited for breakfast, of course in vain.

"Come, boy," said the lodging house keeper, "eat with me."

"Where is my father?" said Paul.

"Gone."

"Gone where?"

"Far away, boy; even over the ocean. He will send for you."

Paul said nothing. He did not even shed a tear, as many a lad would have done. There was the blood of the Cossack in his rugged nature. Even at his small age he did not and would not wear his heart upon his ragged coat sleeve. But he was full of bitter thought. He became a miniature stoic. He munched his humble breakfast in silence.

At first he was treated with a fair degree of kindness by his rough, rude and miserly guardian, but when days, weeks and months came and with them no remittance from the struggling father in Russia, the guardian of the lad became sour, morose, vindictive and cruel. One day he beat the boy, and became greatly enraged because he could not make Paul cry or show by word or sign that the beating gave him pain. Paul stood the abuse like a