e he had left
home.

"He was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on
Sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the
ground."

"I am sorry for him," replied Bobby, musing.

"So am I; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should
have been, it would not have happened. If I had any boys, I would lock
them up in their chambers if I could not keep them at home Sundays."

"Poor Tom!" mused Bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with
him on Saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more
pliant with him.

"It is too bad; but I must say I am more sorry for his poor mother
than I am for him," added the squire. "However, I hope it will do him
good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives."

Bobby bade the squire and Annie adieu again, resumed his journey
towards the railroad station. His thoughts were busy with Tom Spicer's
case. The reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared
he would, was now apparent. He pitied him, for he realized that he
must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he
finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that
he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him.

The young merchant did not walk to Boston this time, for he had come
to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel
to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be
more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and
the expense of shoe leather.

Before noon he was at B---- again, as busy as ever in driving his
business. The experience of the former week was of great value to him.
He visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he
was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not
conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of
propriety.

He was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was
Saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with
him. The net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he
was abundantly pleased.

Mr. Bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and
promptness. Mr. Timmins was even more civil than the last time, and
when Bobby asked the price of Moore's Poems, he actually offered to
sell it to him for thirty-three per cent less than the retail
price. The little merchant was on the point of purchasing it, whe