“Why, you see, sir, what I do for the other professor is all in the line of my business; but the small service I have done for you is only a little bit of civility that I am always so glad to show to any gentleman—­I mean to anybody at all, sir; even a poor wagoner, I often hold horses for them, sir!  And, bless you, they couldn’t pay me a penny.”

“But I can, my boy! and besides you not only held my horse, and watered him, and rubbed him down, and watched my carriage, but you fought a stout battle in defense of my goods, and got yourself badly bruised by the thieves, and unjustly accused by me.  Certainly, it is a poor offering I make in return for your services and sufferings in my interests.  Here, my lad, I have thought better of it; here is a half eagle.  Take it and buy something for yourself.”

“Indeed, indeed, sir, I cannot.  Please don’t keep on asking me,” persisted Ishmael, drawing back with a look of distress and almost of reproach on his fine face.

Now, why could not the little fellow take the money that was pressed upon him?  He wanted it badly enough, Heaven knows!  His best clothes were all patches, and this five dollar gold piece would have bought him a new suit.  And besides there was an “Illustrated History of the United States” in that book-shop, that really and truly Ishmael would have been willing to give a finger off either of his hands to possess; and its price was just three dollars.  Now, why didn’t the little wretch take the money and buy the beautiful book with which his whole soul was enamored?  The poor child did not know himself.  But you and I know, reader, don’t we?  We know that he could not take the money, with the arm of that black-eyed little lady around his neck!

Yes, the arm of Claudia was still most tenderly and protectingly encircling his neck, and every few minutes she would draw down his rough head caressingly to her own damask cheek.

Shocking, wasn’t it?  And you wonder how her aunt and uncle could have stood by and permitted it.  Because they couldn’t help it.  Miss Claudia was a little lady, angel born, who had never been contradicted in her life.  Her father was a crochety old fellow, with a “theory,” one result of which was that he let his trees and his daughter grow up unpruned as they liked.

But do not mistake Miss Claudia, or think her any better or any worse than she really was.  Her caresses of the peasant boy looked as if she was republican in her principles and “fast” in her manners.  She was neither the one nor the other.  So far from being republican, she was just the most ingrained little aristocrat that ever lived!  She was an aristocrat from the crown of her little, black, ringletted head to the sole of her tiny, gaitered foot; from her heart’s core to her scarf-skin; so perfect an aristocrat that she was quite unconscious of being so.  For instance, she looked upon herself as very little lower than the angels; and upon the working