The next day Tom was very busy shelling corn for the planting. He had stationed himself on the doorstep of the barn, and as he shelled and the kernels fell from the cob, he thought of his two letters; and suddenly thinking of some task Miss Mason assigned him, and not being able distinctly to recall it, he took out her letter and laid it open near him, and tried to puzzle out the meaning of an example she had given him, continuing his work while he did so. As he was still thus engaged, the noon-bell struck, and throwing down his ear of corn, he drew a pencil and paper out of his pocket and proceeded carefully to write out the problem. So busy was he that he did not perceive that any one had come up until his master’s voice spoke. “What are you busy about, Tom?” he asked. He looked up suddenly, and then rose out of respect to his master. “I was copying out an example my teacher sent me,” he said. “Is that your writing? Let me see it.” He reached for the paper on which Tom had been working, and eyed it narrowly. “Would you like to see my teacher’s letter, sir?” he asked. “Yes, I should,” he replied; so Tom produced it, and it was read very attentively. “How long did you go to school?” he asked, as he finished it and laid it back into Tom’s hand. “Two years, sir.” “And can you do all those examples your teacher has given you?” “I think so, sir. I am trying them now.” “Is this the way you always pass your noon-time rest?” “Yes, sir,” replied Tom. “The world has turned about,” said the master, with a curious, puzzled look, and then he turned about himself. But he had not gone three steps before he came back again. “Say, my boy,” he said, “come up to the house after supper to-night. Tell Aunt Dinah, the cook, that master said you were to come to the library. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” replied Tom; “I will come, sir.” So the master went away, and Tom returned to his task, so intent and interested that it never entered into his mind to conjecture why he was wanted in the evening at the mansion. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. “O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires!” LONGFELLOW.