“Oh, do let us hurry down with it to Mrs. Knight! Oh, Harold, do you suppose she will sell it to me?” Mabel said, eagerly.
“Of course, I think she will,” Harold answered from the stairs, down which he was going post-haste.
Mabel followed, holding tightly to the book, and they quite startled not only the old lady, but her cat, who was sitting in her lap.
Bobby fled under the sofa, with tail twice its usual size, as the children burst into the room, crying: “We’ve found it, we’ve found it!”
“Softly, my dears; softly. You have scared poor Bobby, who is so nervous after his late troubles; I think he is afraid his enemies are upon him again.”
“Poor Bobby,” said Mabel, gently, pausing in the centre of the room. “We wouldn’t hurt you for the world. See, Mrs. Knight; we did find the book. Will you sell it to me; I have five dollars to buy it with?”
“Five dollars? The whole lot wouldn’t bring that!” exclaimed Mrs. Knight.
“Oh, but it would,” returned Mabel, honestly; “for one of those books sold a day or two ago for fifteen.”
“Does thee really mean it? Well, my cat is worth more than that to me; so, take the book, and be welcome to it.”
Mabel could hardly believe her ears. “Oh,” she exclaimed; “do you really mean to give it to me?”