The
agent was a middle-aged man, and was a close observer of those with whom
he came in contact, and somehow or other he felt a strange interest in
this young man for which he could not account; and meeting him so
frequently, he determined to speak to him. As a pretext for accosting
him he offered to sell him some books, although he had no hopes of
success. The young man regarded him with visible surprise, when he
enquired if he would not like to purchase a book. 'I have no money to
spend for books,' replied the man, yet as if unable to resist the
impulse, he leaned over the table, on which the agent had placed several
books, and began looking them over; and finally selected one, inquired
the price, and paid for it. They soon after parted, and the agent
thought they should probably meet no more, as he expected soon to leave
the city. He returned to the hotel where he boarded, and after tea
seated himself on the piazza, to enjoy the cool evening air; when the
same young man suddenly approached him, and grasping his hand said, in a
voice choked with emotion: 'Tell me, sir, where, O! where did you get
that book?' This young man was the erring but still loved son of the
Virginian widow, who for these long dreary years had roamed over the
earth, unfriended and unaided, vainly imagining his own arm sufficient
to ward off the ills of life.
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