up to bed to allow him more than a snatch at his longed-for
work. A few words, a line or two, were all that could be
managed with safety to life; and the books had to be shut up
again, with bitter mortification that it must be so soon. The
winter passed and Virgil was not read. The spring brought
longer days, and more to do in them.

"Father," said Winthrop one night, "they have got no one yet
in Mr. Dolts' place."

"What, at Mountain Spring? I know they haven't. The foolish
man thought twelve dollars a month wa'n't enough for him, I
suppose."

"Why was he foolish, Mr. Landholm?"

"Because he greatly misstated his own value -- which it isn't
the part of a wise man to do. _I_ know he wasn't worth twelve
dollars."

"Do you think I am worth more than that, sir?"

"I don't know what you're worth," said his father good-
humouredly. "I should be sorry to put a price upon you."

"Why, Winthrop?" -- his mother said more anxiously.

"Will you let me take Mr. Dolts' place, father?"

"His place? What, in the schoolhouse?"