But when the old man’s figure, as he went stooping along the street, was no more to be seen, the boy’s heart began to smite him.  He had a vivid imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father, standing in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy crowd around him, Sam seemed to behold him, arranging his literary merchandise upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to attract notice.  Here was Addison’s Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was Pope’s translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were Dryden’s poems, or those of Prior.  Here, likewise, were Gulliver’s Travels, and a variety of little gilt-covered children’s books, such as Tom Thumb, Jack the Giant-queller, Mother Goose’s Melodies, and others which our great-grandparents used to read in their childhood.  And here were sermons for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, some merry and some dismal ones, for the country people to sing.

Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and ballads, now to the rude yeomen, who perhaps could not read a word,—­now to the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and foxes,—­now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for sugar-plums or gingerbread, rather than for picture-books.  And if Mr. Johnson should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an hour’s talk to get a profit of only sixpence.

“My poor father!” thought Sam to himself.  “How his head will ache, and how heavy his heart will be!  I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade me!”

Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house.  She did not know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.

“Mother,” said he, “did you think father seemed very ill to-day?”

“Yes, Sam,” answered his mother, turning with a flushed face from the fire, where she was cooking their scanty dinner.  “Your father did look very ill; and it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his stead.  You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, I am sure, to do something for your poor father, who has done so much for you.”

The lad made no reply.  But again his imagination set to work, and conjured up another picture of poor Michael Johnson.  He was standing in the hot sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, and disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were drawn to him.  “Had this old man no son,” the people would say among themselves, “who might have taken his place at the bookstall, while the father kept his bed?” And perhaps—­but this was a terrible thought for Sam!—­perhaps his father would faint away, and fall down in the market-place, with his gray hair in the dust, and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a corpse.  And there would be the bystanders gazing earnestly at Mr. Johnson, and whispering, “Is he dead?  Is he dead?”

And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself:  “Is he dead?”