“Yes,” said Mr. Prescott; “she cried, right in the office, when she read that.”
Then Billy told Mr. Prescott about the closet, and all about the box, and asked him to pull out the drawer in the little stand by his bed.
There lay his jack-knife. Somebody had shut up all that was left of the blades, and there was so little left that they couldn’t be opened.
Mr. Prescott put the knife into Billy’s hand.
“That was a good knife,” said Billy, looking at it with affection.
“I think,” said Mr. Prescott, “that you really ought to let me have that knife.”
Billy hesitated a moment, then he said:
“If you please, Mr. Prescott, I should like to keep that knife. It has been a good friend to me.”
Mr. Prescott took the little white hand, knife and all, in his own strong, firm fingers.
“I want it, Billy, because you have been a good friend to me.”