Old Nanny turned them over one by one, rather contemptuously, as I thought, until she came to the tea. “That may do,” said she. “Why, Jack, those are all very pretty things, but they are too pretty for my shop. Why didn’t you bring me some empty gingerbeer bottles? I could have sold them this very morning.”
“Why, mother, I really did not like to ask for such things.”
“No, there it is; you’ve grown so fine all of a sudden. These are no use, for nobody will come to my shop to buy them.”
“I thought you would like to keep them yourself, mother.”
“Keep them? Oh, they are keepsakes, are they? Look you, Jack, if they are to be kept you had better take them away at once, and give them to the young girls. Girls like keepsakes, old women like money.”
“Well, mother, sell them if you please; they are your own.”
“Sell them? let me see—yes, I think I know where there is a sort of curiosity-shop, in Church Street; but it’s a long way to walk Jack, and that—let me see,” continued she, counting the different articles, “one, two, three—seven times, Jack.”
“But why not take them all at once.”
“All at once, you stupid boy! I should get no more for two than for one. No, no; one at a time, and I may make a few shillings. Well, Jack, it’s very kind of you after all, so don’t mind my being a little cross; it was not on account of the things, but because you did not come to see me and I’ve been looking out for you.”
“If I had thought that, I would have come sooner, mother, although it would not have been convenient.”