Daniel was but eight years old, a boy of striking appearance, with black hair and eyes, and a swarthy complexion. He was of slender frame, and his large dark eyes, deep set beneath an overhanging brow, gave a singular appearance to the thin face of the delicate looking boy.
He was a farmer’s son, and lived in a plain, old-fashioned house, shaded by fine elms, and separated from the broad, quiet street by a fence. It was situated in a valley, at the bend of the Merrimac, on both sides of which rose high hills, which the boy climbed many a time for the more extended view they commanded. From a high sheep-pasture on his father’s farm, through a wide opening in the hills, he could see on a clear day Brentney Mountain in Vermont, and in a different direction the snowy top of Mount Washington, far away to the northeast.
He entered the humble store with his companion.
Behind the counter stood Master Hoyt, a tall man, of stern aspect, which could strike terror into the hearts of delinquent scholars when in the winter they came to receive instruction from him.
“Good morning, Daniel,” said Master Hoyt, who was waiting upon a customer.
“Good morning, sir,” answered Daniel, respectfully.
“I hope you won’t forget what you learned at school last winter.”
“No, sir, I will try not to.”
“You mustn’t forget your reading and writing.”