re, unselfish devotion to his mother was a
vastly greater thing. Many great achievements are morally
insignificant, while many of which the world never hears mark the true
hero.

Our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from
relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his ambition
suggested new and wider fields of success. As one ideal, brilliant and
glorious in its time, was reached, another more brilliant and more
glorious presented itself, and demanded to be achieved. The little
black house began to appear rusty and inconvenient; a coat of white
paint would marvellously improve its appearance; a set of nice
Paris-green blinds would make a palace of it, and a neat fence around
it would positively transform the place into a paradise. Yet Bobby was
audacious enough to think of these things, and even to promise himself
that they should be obtained.

In conversation with Mr. Bayard a few days before, that gentleman had
suggested a new field of labor; and it had been arranged that Bobby
should visit the State of Maine the following week. On the banks of
the Kennebec were many wealthy and important towns, where the
intelligence of the people created a demand for books. This time the
little merchant was to take two hundred books, and be absent until they
were all sold.

On Monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad station.
As usual, he called upon Squire Lee, and informed Annie that he should
probably be absent three or four weeks. She hoped no accident would
happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned with success.
Without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for Bobby was a great
friend of hers. That elegant copy of Moore's Poems had been gratefully
received, and she was so fond of the bard's beautiful and touching
melodies that she could never read any of them without thinking of the
brave little fellow who had given her the volume; which no one will
consider very remarkable, even in a little miss of twelve.

After he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his journey.
Of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one need suppose
he was wondering how wide the Kennebec River was, or how many books he
should sell in the towns upon its banks. Nothing of the kind; though
it is enough even for the inquisitive to know that he was thinking of
something, and that his thoughts were very interesting, not to say
romantic.

"Hallo, Bob!" sho