“Where are you going now?”

“I don’t know.  I ought to have taken your advice, Bobby.”

This was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion—­as who does not when the erring confess their faults?

“I am sorry you did not.”

“I got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to Brunswick,” continued Tom, rather sheepishly.

“And spent all your money,” added Bobby, who could readily understand the reason why Tom had put on his humility again.

“Not all.”

“How much have you left?”

“Not much,” replied he, evasively.  “I don’t know what I shall do.  I am in a strange place, and have no friends.”

Bobby’s sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity.

“I will stick by you this time, Bob, come what will.  I will do just as you say, now.”

Our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence.  He did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made Tom so humble.  He was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior.  He could not desert him now he was in difficulty.

“You shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to Boston together.  Have you money enough left to pay your employer?”

Tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind.

“I don’t know how it will be after I have paid my expenses to Boston,” he replied, averting his face.

Bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as Tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season.

“Now, Tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and I will take those upon this side.  You shall have the profits on all you sell.”

“You are a first rate fellow, Bob; and I only wish I had done as you wanted me to do.”

“Can’t be helped now, and we will do the next best thing,” replied Bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house.

Tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four.  “The Wayfarer” had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand.  Bobby’s heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house.  How glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy Annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the State of Maine!  Wouldn’t she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful Kennebec!

Poor Bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him.