“I thought you might like to have this.” And Johnny Blossom placed the pill box on the table and gazed expectantly into Aunt Grenertsen’s wrinkled face.
“Pills?” said Aunt Grenertsen. “I have never taken pills in all my long life.”
“It isn’t pills, it isn’t pills!” exclaimed Johnny Blossom, hopping about on one foot with joy, because Aunt Grenertsen would be so pleased when she saw what it was.
“Just look inside! Just look!” he continued.
Aunt Grenertsen opened the box.
“An old postage stamp,” said she.
“Oh, it’s a Mozambique stamp, Aunt Grenertsen,” explained Johnny Blossom earnestly. “It is awfully rare. There isn’t another one in the whole town, Aunt Grenertsen.”
“Indeed?” Aunt Grenertsen looked at the little old stamp dubiously, turning it round and round.
“But why do you give it to me, Johnny Blossom?”
“Oh, because—because you only got eight apples, and Mother said”—