“Ah, you see uncle don’t want to hear of his mistakes.  He is not vain of them.”

“Will you hold your tongue just for three minutes, Claudia?”

“Yes, sir, to oblige you; but I know I shall get a sore throat by keeping my mouth open so long.”

And with that, I regret to say, Miss Merlin put out her little tongue and literally “held” it between her thumb and finger as she sank back in her seat.

“Ishmael,” said Mr. Middleton, “I have seen your poster about the pocketbook.  It is mine; I dropped it this forenoon, when we first came out.”

“Oh, sir, I’m so glad I have found the owner, and that it is you!” exclaimed Ishmael, putting his hand in his pocket to deliver the lost article.

“Stop, stop, stop, my impetuous little friend!  Don’t you know I must prove my property before I take possession of it?  That is to say, I must describe it before I see it, so as to convince you that it is really mine?”

“Oh, sir, but that was only put in my poster to prevent imposters from claiming it,” said Ishmael, blushing.

“Nevertheless, it is better to do business in a business-like way,” persisted Mr. Middleton, putting his hand upon that of the boy to prevent him from drawing forth the pocketbook.  “Imprimis—­a crimson pocketbook, with yellow silk lining; items—­in one compartment three quarter eagles in gold; in another two dollars in silver.  Now is that right?”

“Oh, yes, sir; but it wasn’t necessary; you know that!” said Ishmael, putting the pocketbook in the hand of its owner.

Mr. Middleton opened it, took out a piece of gold and would have silently forced it in the hand of the poor boy, but Ishmael respectfully but firmly put back the offering.

“Take it, my boy; it is usual to do so, you know,” said Mr. Middleton, in a low voice.

“Not for me, sir; please do not offer me money again unless I have earned it,” replied the boy, in an equally low tone.

“But as a reward for finding the pocketbook,” persisted Mr. Middleton.

“That was a piece of good fortune, sir, and deserved no reward,” replied Ishmael.

“Then for restoring it to me.”

“That was simple honesty, sir, and merited nothing either.”

“Still, there would be no harm in your taking this from me,” insisted Mr. Middleton, pressing the gold upon the boy.

“No, sir; perhaps there would not be; but I am sure—­I am very sure—­that Thomas Jefferson when he was a boy would never have let anybody pay him for being honest!”

“Who?” demanded Mr. Middleton, with a look of perplexity.

“Thomas Jefferson, sir, who wrote the Declaration of Independence, that I read of in that beautiful history you gave me.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Middleton, ceasing to press the money upon the boy, but putting it in his pocketbook and returning the pocketbook to his pocket.  “Oh! and by the way, I am told that you have sold that history to-day.”