It was a red morocco pocketbook lying in the middle of the road.  There was not a human creature except Ishmael himself on the road or anywhere in sight.  Neither had he passed anyone on his way from the village.  Therefore it was quite in vain that he looked up and down and all around for the owner of the pocketbook as he raised it from the ground.  No possible claimant was to be seen.  He opened it and examined its contents.  It contained a little gold and silver, not quite ten dollars in all; but a fortune for Ishmael, in his present needy condition.  There was no name on the pocketbook and not a scrap of paper in it by which the owner might be discovered.  There was nothing in it but the untraceable silver and gold.  It seemed to have dropped from heaven for Ishmael’s own benefit!  This was his thought as he turned with the impulse to fly directly back to the village and invest a portion of the money in necessaries for Hannah.

What was it that suddenly arrested his steps?  The recollection that the money was not his own! that to use it even for the best purpose in the world would be an act of dishonesty.

He paused and reflected.  The devil took that opportunity to tempt him—­whispering: 

“You found the pocketbook and you cannot find the owner; therefore it is your own, you know.”

“You know it isn’t,” murmured Ishmael’s conscience.

“Well, even so, it is no harm to borrow a dollar or two to get your poor sick aunt a little tea and sugar.  You could pay it back again before the pocketbook is claimed, even if it is ever claimed,” mildly insinuated the devil.

“It would be borrowing without leave,” replied conscience.

“But for your poor, sick, suffering aunt! think of her, and make her happy this evening with a consoling cup of tea!  Take only half a dollar for that good purpose.  Nobody could blame you for that,” whimpered the devil, who was losing ground.

“I would like to make dear Aunt Hannah happy to-night.  But I am sure George Washington would not approve of my taking what don’t belong to me for that or any other purpose.  And neither would Patrick Henry, nor John Hancock.  And so I won’t do it,” said Ishmael, resolutely putting the pocketbook in his vest pocket and buttoning his coat tight over it, and starting at brisk pace homeward.

You see his heroes had come to his aid and saved him in the first temptation of his life.

Ah, you may be sure that in after days the rising politician met and resisted many a temptation to sell his vote, his party, or his soul for a “consideration”; but none more serious to the man than this one was to the boy.

When Ishmael had trudged another mile of his homeward road, it suddenly occurred to him that he might possibly meet or overtake the owner of the pocketbook, who would know his property in a moment if he should see it.  And with this thought he took it from his pocket and carried it conspicuously in his hand until he reached home, without having met a human being.