“I once knew a man who ate a pound of spice and died,” he said gloomily.
“How much are these a pound?” Ella asked.
“Forty cents,” the clerk replied.
“Then,” said Ella, “if I buy a cent’s worth each time, I shouldn’t have had a pound till I had been here thirty-nine times more, should I?”
“No,” said the clerk wonderingly.
“I’ll be careful,” said Ella blithely. “I’ll keep count, and when I get to thirty-nine, I’ll stop—and then pretty soon I’ll begin over. Will you please give me the first pennyworth now?”—and he did.
The other store held a supply of handkerchiefs, neckties, suspenders, stockings, and whatever other small wares men might want to buy. It was presided over by a trim little old gentleman with the whitest of linen and the reddest of cheeks. He was sometimes standing in the doorway when she went by, and one morning he held a letter in his hand. Ella would have offered to take it, but she was too shy. Perhaps the little old gentleman was a bit shy, also, for he hesitated until she was almost past.
Then he said, “Should you be willing to leave this in the post-office as you go by?”
“I’d like to ever so much,” replied Ella cordially; and ever after that, when she passed the store and the little gentleman was in sight, they exchanged smiles and good-mornings.
“I hope you were very careful of the letter,” said the mother when she heard the story.