le gilt-covered children's books, such as Tom Thumb, Jack the
Giant-queller, Mother Goose's Melodies, and others which our
great-grandparents used to read in their childhood. And here were sermons
for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, some merry
and some dismal ones, for the country people to sing.

Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and
ballads, now to the rude yeomen, who perhaps could not read a word,--now to
the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and
foxes,--now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for
sugar-plums or gingerbread, rather than for picture-books. And if Mr.
Johnson should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an
hour's talk to get a profit of only sixpence.

"My poor father!" thought Sam to himself. "How his head will ache, and how
heavy his heart will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade
me!"

Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house. She did not
know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.

"Mother," said he, "did you think father seemed very ill to-day?"

"Yes, Sam," answered his mother, turning with a flushed face from the
fire, where she was cooking their scanty dinner. "Your father did look
very ill; and it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his stead.
You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, I am sure, to do something for
your poor father, who has done so much for you."

The lad made no reply. But again his imagination set to work, and conjured
up another picture of poor Michael Johnson. He was standing in the hot
sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, and
disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were drawn to him. "Had this
old man no son," the people would say among themselves, "who might have
taken his place at the bookstall, while the father kept his bed?" And
perhaps--but this was a terrible thought for Sam!--perhaps his father would
faint away, and fall down in the market-place, with his gray hair in the
dust, and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a corpse. And there
would be the bystanders gazing earnestly at Mr. Johnson, and whispering,
"Is he dead? Is he dead?"

And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself: "Is he dead?"

"Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he, within his own heart. "God
forgive me! God forgive me!"

But God could not yet forgive him; for he was not truly penitent.