"Equity is an expensive commodity, my lad," he said kindly. "How much law have you read?" "I have read The Law of Virginia," answered the boy. "I borrowed it. I worked a week for Mr. Douglas, and read The Law of Nations rest-hours. Mrs. Selden, on the Three-Notched Road, gave me The Federalist. Are you a lawyer, sir?" The gentleman laughed, and the genie behind the counter laughed. Young Mocket plucked Lewis Rand by the sleeve, but the latter was intent upon the personage before him and did not heed. "Yes," said the gentleman, "I am a lawyer. Are you going to be one?" "I am," said the boy. "Will you tell me what books I ought to buy? I have two dollars." The other looked at him with keen light eyes. "That amount will not buy you many books," he said. "You should enter some lawyer's office where you may have access to his library. You spoke of the Three-Notched Road. Are you from Albemarle?" "Yes, sir. I am Gideon Rand's son." "Indeed! Gideon Rand! Then Mary Wayne was your mother?" "Yes, sir." "I remember," said the gentleman, "when she married your father. She was a beautiful woman. I heard of her death while I was in Paris." The boy's regard, at first solely for the books, had been for some moments transferred to the gentleman who, it seemed, was a lawyer, and had known his people, and had been to Paris. He saw a tall man, of a spare and sinewy frame, with red hair, lightly powdered, and keen blue eyes. Lewis Rand's cheek grew red, and his eyes at once shy and eager. He stammered when he spoke. "Are you from Albemarle, sir?" The other smiled, a bright and gracious smile, irradiating his ruddy, freckled face. "I am," he said. "From--from Monticello?" "From Monticello." The speaker, who loved his home with passion, never uttered its name without a softening of the voice. "From Monticello," he said again. "There are books enough there, my lad. Some day you shall ride over from the Three-Notched Road, and I will show you them." "I will come," said Lewis Rand. The colour deepened in his face and a moisture troubled his vision. The shop, the littered counter, the guardian of the books, and President Washington's Secretary of State wavered like the sunbeam at the door. Jefferson ran his hand over the row of books. "Mr. Smith, give the lad old Coke, yes, and Locke on Government, and put them to my account.--Where do you go to school?" The boy swallowed hard, straightened his shoulders, and looked his questioner in the face. "Nowhere, sir--not now. My father hates learning, and I work in the fields. I am very much obliged to you for the books,--and had I best buy Blackstone with the two dollars?"