The old man’s eyes looked on eagerly as the girl took and opened the watch, the peculiar sound emitted, as she carefully re-wound it, seeming to afford the invalid the greatest satisfaction.
“Not lost, has it, Gertie?” he said quickly.
“No, uncle, dear,” said Gertie, comparing her hands with those of her own watch.
“Nor likely to. A splendid watch, Gertie. No trashy present, that. My boy’s made of too good stuff to mar his future. But I was blind in those days, Gertie—blind. Now read it again.”
As if well accustomed to the task, the girl held the open case to the light, and read on its glistening concave, where it was deeply engraved with many a flourish and scroll:
James Harrington, Esq,
from his grandson.
Pure gold from the golden west.
“Pure gold from the Golden West!” said the old man, as he stretched out his hands eagerly and ran the nugget chain through his fingers. “And I mocked at his poor father, and told him it was all a myth. Put it away, Gertie. George is to wear that always, my dear. I’ve saved it for him. You know I’ve only worn it on his birthdays since.”
“Yes, uncle, dear,” said the girl gravely, as she replaced the watch in its case.
“And now look here, my dear,” said the old man, taking up a small pocket-ledger and handing it to Gertie; “open at page six.”
“Yes, uncle,” said the girl wonderingly; and then looking at him for further instructions.