As Ishmael left the village by the eastern arm of the road a gay sleighing party dashed into it from the western one. Horses prancing, bells ringing, veils flying, and voices chattering, they drew up before Hamlin's shop. The party consisted of Mr. Middleton, his wife, and his niece.
Mr. Middleton gave the reins to his wife and got out and went into the shop to make a few purchases.
When his parcels had been made up and paid for, he turned to leave the shop; but then, as if suddenly recollecting something, he looked back and inquired:
"By the way, Hamlin, have those Histories come yet?"
"No, sir; but I shall write for them again by this evening's mail; I cannot think what has delayed them. However, sir, there is one copy that I can let you have, if that will be of any service."
"Certainly, certainly; it is better than nothing; let me look at it," said Mr. Middleton, coming back from the counter and taking the book from Hamlin's hands.
In turning over the leaves he came to the presentation page, on which he recognized his own handwriting in the lines:
"Presented to Ishmael Worth, as a reward of merit, by his friend James Middleton."
"Why, this is the very copy I gave to that poor little fellow on the hill, last August! How did you come by it again?" asked Mr. Middleton, in astonishment.
"He brought it here to sell about an hour ago, sir, and as it was a perfectly fresh copy, and I knew you were in a hurry for some of them, I bought it of him," replied the dealer.