“Yes. I don’t see why they shouldn’t be named as well as a horse. Don’t you think Angelica is a good name? Oh, bicycle, so nice and dear! I wish you were this minute here! Why, that’s a rhyme, isn’t it?”
“Here’s a jeweller’s,” said Hilda, glancing at the window of a store they were passing. “It isn’t very big, but it looks pretty nice.”
A clerk with very black hair and a very big nose came forward to wait on them.
Cricket produced the ring for his inspection.
“It isn’t a really-truly diamond,” she said, lifting her honest eyes to his face, “but we’d like to sell it for what it’s worth. And here’s a note,” she added, producing it with a fluttering heart. Would he just say it was a joke, and not do anything about it? They waited breathlessly.
“Not a diamond?” said the clerk, taking it carelessly. He turned it over and looked at it closely, glanced at the children, read the note, and then said:
“No, it isn’t a diamond. I should say not. We’ll give you—let me see—well, I’ll have to ask the boss,” and he went off.
“They always have to ask somebody. Oh, Hilda, how much do you think they’ll give?” whispered Cricket, eagerly, squeezing Hilda’s hand.
“Probably thirty dollars, at least,” answered Hilda, returning the squeeze. “Hush! here he comes.”
“Boss says,” began the clerk deliberately, “that the diamond isn’t real, but if it’s all right about the note,”—the children gasped,—“that he can allow you, well, as much as seventy-five cents for the ring.”