Richard thought it no harm to peep into the books as he went along. The first novel he opened was all about great lords and ladies, and what they did and said, and how they looked and walked, and spent their time; and Richard, when he had read half a page, came to the conclusion that those grand folks must be different in every respect from any human beings he had ever seen. He had resolved to be very quick in his messages; but as he read, his pace insensibly slackened, and his master (a long, lean man, whose benevolent countenance was somewhat hardened by a firm set mouth) met him at the door. “You have loitered.” “I just looked into the book, sir; and I am afraid I did not come as fast as I intended.” “I sent you to carry books, not to read them; and this sort of books would not do you any good, but rather harm.” “Please, sir, I thought I had time enough.” “Remember what Poor Richard says, ‘that what we call time enough always proves little enough.’ Besides, I have a right to your _time_; it is all you have to give in exchange for my money, and it is as dishonest to squander the one as it would be to squander the other.” “I will never look in a book again, sir, without your leave.” It was perhaps strange that, though the bookseller had seen as much of what is called “the world,”—that is, of his own particular “world,” with now and then a peep into its higher and lower regions—as most men, and been—as kind-natured men invariably are—frequently deceived, yet he never doubted the integrity of his little messenger’s promise, believing he would keep it to the letter; and he turned away without a single additional word of reproof or displeasure; but Richard heard sundry murmurings and grumblings on the stairs—ascending and descending—which convinced him that Matty would not be as easily pacified as her master. The bookseller told him he might go down and have his dinner. “Your room would be more pleasing than your company,” said Matty. Without a word he was returning whence he came. “Where are you going?” she inquired, vehemently. “You did not wish me to stay.” “But yer master did; he’s never contint but when he fills up this bit of a kitchen with tagrag and bobtail; but, no matter—there, eat your dinner.” “Am I always to dine here?” he said, in a hesitating voice. “Just like the rest of them! Yer going to find fault with the blessed food—I knew ye’ would—I said so to-day. Says I, ‘He was too fond of giving his bread to the dogs, to care for his dinner.’” The woman’s contradictions perplexed the boy so much that he could not speak. Moreover, he felt a sort of self-reproach for eating all that meat, when his mother wanted; this made him more than once lay down his knife and fork, and look upward. “Mighty fine eyes ye’ have, to be sure, and fond of showing them,” said the sarcastic Matty. “I’m quite done, thank you,” he said, after murmuring a grace he truly felt.