appeared wherever I went.

As I was on my road to Cambridge, travelling in a stagecoach, whilst we
were slowly going up a steep hill, I looked out of the window, and saw a
man sitting under a hawthorn-bush, reading very intently. There was a
pedlar's box beside him; I thought I knew the box. I called out as we were
passing, and asked the man, "What's the mile-stone?" He looked up. It was
poor Jacob. The beams of the morning sun dazzled him; but he recognized me
immediately, as I saw by the look of joy which instantly spread over his
countenance. I jumped out of the carriage, saying that I would walk up the
hill, and Jacob, putting his book in his pocket, took up his well-known
box, and walked along with me. I began, not by asking any question about
his father, though curiosity was not quite dead within me, but by observing
that he was grown very studious since we parted; and I asked what book he
had been reading so intently. He showed it to me; but I could make nothing
of it, for it was German. He told me that it was the Life of the celebrated
Mendelssohn, the Jew. I had never heard of this celebrated man. He said
that if I had any curiosity about it, he could lend me a translation which
he had in his pack; and with all the alacrity of good-will, he set down the
box to look for the book.

"No, don't trouble yourself--don't open it," said I, putting my hand on the
box. Instantly a smile, and a sigh, and a look of ineffable kindness and
gratitude from Jacob, showed me that all the past rushed upon his heart.

"Not trouble myself! Oh, Master Harrington," said he, "poor Jacob is not so
ungrateful as that would come to."

"You're only too grateful," said I; "but walk on--keep up with me, and tell
me how your affairs are going on in the world, for I am much more