Mr. Glanbally had returned to his book and was turning over
the leaves of it with his nose; and Winthrop was left alone to
his contemplations. How alone the turning over of those leaves
did make him feel. If Mr. Glanbally would have held up his
head and used his fingers, like a Christian man, it would not
have been so dreary; but that nose said emphatically, "You
never saw me before."

It was a help to him when somebody came in to spread that bare
table with supper. Fried pork, and cheese; and bread that was
not his mother's sweet baking, and tea that was very
"herbaceous." It was the fare he must expect up the mountain.
He did not mind that. He would have lived on bread and water.
The company were not fellow-travellers either, to judge by
their looks. No matter for that; he did not want company. He
would sing, "My mind to me a kingdom is;" but the kingdom had
to be conquered first; enough to do. He was thinking all
supper-time what waste ground it was. And after supper he was
taken to his very spare room. It was doubtful how the epithet
could possibly have been better deserved. That mattered not;
the temple of Learning should cover his head by and by; it
signified little what shelter it took in the mean while. But
though he cared nothing for each of these things separately,
they all together told him he was a traveller; and Winthrop's
heart owned itself overcome, whatever his head said to it.

His was not a head to be ashamed of his heart; and it was with
no self-reproach that he let tears come, and then wiped them
away. He slept at last; and the sleep of a tired man should be
sweet. But "as he slept he dreamed." He fell to his