They must be. Winthrop had no books either. What had he? A
wardrobe large enough to be tied up in a pocket-handkerchief;
his father's smile; his mother's tremulous blessing; and the
tears of his little brother and sister.

He set out with his wardrobe in his hand, and a dollar in his
pocket, to walk to Asphodel. It was a walk of thirteen miles.
The afternoon was chill, misty and lowering; November's sad-
colour in the sky, and Winter's desolating heralds all over
the ground. If the sun shone anywhere, there was no sign of
it; and there was no sign of it either in the traveller's
heart. If fortune had asked him to play "even or odd," he
could hardly have answered her.

He was leaving home. _They_ did not know it, but he did. It was
the first step over home's threshold. This little walk was the
beginning of a long race, of which as yet he knew only the
starting-point; and for love of that starting-point and for
straitness of heart at turning his back upon it, he could have
sat down under the fence and cried. How long this absence from
home might be, he did not know. But it was the snapping of the
tie, -- that he knew. He was setting his face to the world; and
the world's face did not answer him very cheerfully. And that
poor little pocket-handkerchief of things, which his mother's
hands had tied up, he hardly dared glance at it; it said so
pitifully how much they would, how little they had the power
to do for him; she and his father; how little way that heart
of love could reach, when once he had set out on the cold
journey of life. He had set out now, and he felt alone, --
alone; -- his best company was the remembrance of that