“Attend to the children, Mr. Martin,” she said; “they don’t like to wait. Are you buying a thimble for your mother, my little man?”
“My mother’s dead,” said Louis, “because we are poor, and the millionnaires wont ’vide. This thimble is for George’s mother.”
“You don’t remember the boy, Alice,” said Dr. Richards; “indeed I don’t know that you ever saw him; he is Dora Metzerott’s child.”
“He is very like her,” said Alice slowly. Her mind went back to the days when she and Dora had been “evened” to one another as equally headstrong in marrying for love and disregarding orthodoxy. She would be proud and happy to be “evened” to Dora now, in another respect.
Meanwhile Herr Martin had produced a case of thimbles, by whose silvery brightness the boys were so impressed that they began to doubt whether their quarter would buy so very many of them after all.
“But how much money have you got?” asked the jeweller.
“A real quarter,” answered Louis proudly. “I found it this morning.”
“Oh! found it, did you? Then how do you know but it belongs to me?”
“You’re in fun,” said the child gravely; “my papa said it might belong to me.”
“Oh! well, if your papa said so! But doesn’t any of it belong to George?”