“Poor Tom!” mused Bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with him on Saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more pliant with him.

“It is too bad; but I must say I am more sorry for his poor mother than I am for him,” added the squire.  “However, I hope it will do him good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives.”

Bobby bade the squire and Annie adieu again, and resumed his journey towards the railroad station.  His thoughts were busy with Tom Spicer’s case.  The reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared he would, was now apparent.  He pitied him, for he realized that he must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he finally dismissed the matter with the squire’s sage reflection, that he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him.

The young merchant did not walk to Boston this time, for he had come to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and the expense of shoe leather.

Before noon he was at B——­ again, as busy as ever in driving his business.  The experience of the former week was of great value to him.  He visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not conscious in a single instance of offending any person’s sense of propriety.

He was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was Saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with him.  The net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he was abundantly pleased.

Mr. Bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and promptness.  Mr. Timmins was even more civil than the last time, and when Bobby asked the price of Moore’s Poems, he actually offered to sell it to him for thirty-three per cent. less than the retail price.  The little merchant, was on the point of purchasing it, when Mr. Bayard inquired what he wanted.

“I am going to buy this book,” replied Bobby.

“Moore’s Poems?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same work—­morocco, full gilt—­and handed it to our hero.

“I shall make you a present of this.  Are you an admirer of Moore?”

“No, sir; not exactly—­that is, I don’t know much about it; but Annie Lee does, and I want to get the book for her.”

Bobby’s checks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion.

“Annie Lee?” said Mr. Bayard with a quizzing smile.  “I see how it is.  Rather young, Bobby.”

“Her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has Annie, for that matter.  Squire Lee would be a great deal more pleased if I should make Annie a present than if I made him one.  I feel grateful to him, and I want to let it out some how.”