“There will be no difficulty about that,” answered George. “The owner will be delighted to let you keep it as long as you wish!”
“I would it were so!”
“It is so!”
“You don't mean to say, George, that that queen of jewels is yours, and you will lend it me?”
“The thing is mine, but I will not lend it—not even to you, sir!”
“I don't wonder!—I don't wonder! But it is a great disappointment! I was beginning to hope I—I—might have the loan of it for a week or two even!”
“You should indeed if the thing were mine!” said George, playing him; “but—”
“Oh, I beg your pardon! I thought you said it was yours!”
“So it was when I brought it, but it is mine no longer. It is yours. I purchased it for you this morning.”
The old man was speechless. He rose, and seizing George by both hands, stood staring at him. Something very like tears gathered within the reddened rims of his eyes. He had grown paler and feebler of late, ever in vain devising to secure possession of the cup—possession moral as well as legal. But this entrancing gift brought with it strength and hope in regard to the chalice! “To him that hath shall be given!” quoted the Mammon within him.