Mrs. Bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts.

“Fifty books!” she exclaimed, as she read the first entry.

“Yes, mother; and I sold them all.”

“Fifty dollars!”

“But I had to pay for the books out of that.”

“To be sure you had; but I suppose you made as much as ten cents a piece on them, and that would be—­let me see; ten times fifty—­”

“But I made more than that, I hope.”

“How much?”

The proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars.

“Gracious!  Three dollars a day!”

“Just so, mother.  Now I will pay you the dollar I borrowed of you when I went away.”

“You didn’t borrow it of me.”

“But I shall pay it.”

Mrs. Bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying result.  If she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the little black house, it could not have afforded her so much satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son’s talent and energy.  Her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three or four dollars a week, and Bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen for five days’ work.  She could scarcely believe the evidence other own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked big.

It was nearly ten o’clock when the widow and her son went to bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero’s affairs.  He had intended to call upon Squire Lee that night, but the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it till the next day.

After breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the intended visit.  There was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom as he knocked at the squire’s door.  He was proud of the success he had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him.  Besides, Annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such a desire when they parted on the Monday preceding.  I don’t think that Bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart.  In coming from the house he had placed his copy of “The Wayfarer” under his arm, for Annie was fond of reading; and on the way over, he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from reading his book.

Of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his daughter.  Each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once they had conversed together about him.

“Well, Bobby, how is trade in the book line?” asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted.

“Pretty fair,” replied Bobby, with as much indifference as he could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and there.