“Never mind!” said Eliakim. “I haven't any time to hear it. If it were new it would be worth something; but it's old, and——”
“But you do not understand,” interrupted the customer, eagerly. “It is worth much more than new. Do you see, it is by a famous maker? I would not sell him, but I am poor, and my Bettina needs bread. It hurts me very much to let him go. I will buy him back as soon as I can.”
“I will give you two dollars, but I shall lose on it, unless you redeem it.”
“Two dollar!” repeated the Italian. “Ocielo! it is nothing. But Bettina is at home without bread, poor little one! Will you not give three dollar?”
“Not a cent more.”
“I will take it.”
“There's your money and ticket.”
And with these the poor Italian departed, giving one last lingering glance at his precious violin, as Eliakim took it roughly and deposited it upon a shelf behind him. But he thought of his little daughter at home, and the means of relief which he held in his hand, and a smile of joy lightened his melancholy features. The future might be dark and unpromising, but for three days, at any rate, she should not want bread.
Paul's turn came next.
“What have you got?” asked the pawnbroker.