scents a book, I shouldn't want to try to keep him company."

"I should think Boston was forty miles off by your talk," said Nat;
"what is a walk of ten miles for any one of us, hale and hearty fellows.
If I live, I expect to walk there more than once."

Saturday came. It was a bright, pleasant day, and Nat was up betimes,
clothed and fed for a start. With a light heart and nimble feet, he made
rapid progress on his way, and the forenoon was not far gone when he
reached Cornhill. He was not long in finding the bookstores, caring,
apparently, for little else. Most boys of his age, in going to the city,
would be attracted by other sights and scenes. The Museum, with its fine
collection of curiosities from every part of the world, would attract
one; the State House, with its splendid view from the cupola, would
draw another; the ships in the harbor, with their forest of masts,
would fill the eyes of a third; while the toy-shops, music-stores, and
confectioners, would command the particular attention of others. But
none of these things attracted Nat. He went to examine the bookstores,
and to them he repaired. Books filled the show-windows, and some were
outside to attract attention. He examined those outside before he
stepped in. He read the title of each volume upon the back, and some he
took up and examined. Having looked to his heart's content outside, he
stepped in. A cordial bow welcomed him to every place.

"What would you like, sir?" inquired one bookseller.

"I came in," replied Nat, "to look at your books, with your permission."

"Look as long as you please," replied the bookseller, with a countenance
beaming with good-will, to make Nat feel at home.

For an hour or more he went from shelf to shelf, examining title-pages
and the contents of volumes, reading a paragraph here and there, marking
the names of authors, and all the while wishing that he possessed this,
that, and the other work. There were two or three volumes he thought he
might purchase if the price was within his limited means, among which
was "Locke's Essay on the Understanding." But he did not discover either
of the works in his examination. At length he inquired,

"Have you a copy of 'Locke's Essay on the Understanding?'"

"Yes," replied the bookseller, "I have a second-hand copy that I will
sell you cheap," taking down from a shelf an English pocket edition of
the work. "There, I will sell you that for twenty-five cents."

"Is it a perfect