This conversation was carried on in a whisper.  When it was ended Mr. Middleton turned to Ishmael and said: 

“Very well, my boy; I can but respect your scruples.  Follow us back to Hamlin’s.”

And so saying, he helped his wife and his niece into the pony chaise, got in himself, and took the reins to drive on.

Miss Claudia looked back and watched Ishmael as he limped slowly and painfully after them.  The distance was very short, and they soon reached the shop.

“Which is the window he was looking in, Claudia?” inquired Mr. Middleton.

“This one on the left hand, uncle.”

“Ah!  Come here, my boy; look into this window now, and tell me which of these books you would advise me to buy for a present to a young friend of mine?”

The poor fellow looked up with so much perplexity in his face at the idea of this grave, middle-aged gentleman asking advice of him, that Mr. Middleton hastened to say: 

“The reason I ask you, Ishmael, is because, you being a boy would be a better judge of another boy’s tastes than an old man like me could be.  So now judge by yourself, and tell me which book you think would please my young friend best.  Look at them all, and take time.”

“Oh, yes, sir.  But I don’t want time!  Anybody could tell in a minute which book a boy would like!”

“Which, then?”

“Oh, this, this, this!  ‘History of the United States,’ all full of pictures!”

“But here is ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ and here is the ‘Arabian Nights’; why not choose one of them?”

“Oh, no, sir—­don’t!  They are about people that never lived, and things that aren’t true; and though they are very interesting, I know, there is no solid satisfaction in them like there is in this—­”

“Well, now ‘this.’  What is the great attraction of this to a boy?  Why, it’s nothing but dry history,” said Mr. Middleton, with an amused smile, while he tried to “pump” the poor lad.

“Oh, sir, but there’s so much in it!  There’s Captain John Smith, and Sir Walter Raleigh, and Jamestown, and Plymouth, and the Pilgrim Fathers, and John Hancock, and Patrick Henry, and George Washington, and the Declaration of Independence, and Bunker’s Hill, and Yorktown!  Oh!” cried Ishmael with an ardent burst of enthusiasm.

“You seem to know already a deal more of the history of our country than some of my first-class young gentlemen have taken the trouble to learn,” said Mr. Middleton, in surprise.

“Oh, no, I don’t, sir.  I know no more than what I have read in a little thin book, no bigger than your hand, sir, that was lent to me by the professor; but I know by that how much good there must be in this, sir.”

“Ah! a taste of the dish has made you long for a feast.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing, my boy, but that I shall follow your advice in the selection of a book,” said the gentleman, as he entered the shop.  The lady and the little girl remained in the carriage, and Ishmael stood feasting his hungry eyes upon the books in the window.