“Oranges! oranges! fine China oranges!” cried a woman, rolling her barrow full of fine fruit towards him. “If you’ve a two-pence in the world, you can’t do better than take one of these fine ripe China oranges.”
“I have not two-pence of my own in the world,” said the boy.
“What’s that I see through the hole in your waistcoat pocket?” said the woman; “is not that silver?”
“Yes, half-a-crown; which I am carrying home to my father, who is ill, and wants it more than I do.”
“Pooh! take an orange out of it—it’s only two-pence—and it will do you good—I’m sure you look as if you wanted it badly enough.”
“That may be; but father wants it worse.—No, I won’t change my half-crown,” said the boy, turning away from the tempting oranges.
The gruff gardener caught him by the hand.
“Here, I’ve moved the balsam a bit, and it is not broke, I see; sit ye down, child, and rest yourself, and eat this,” said he, putting into his hand half a ripe orange, which he just cut.
“Thank you!—God bless you, sir!—How good it is!—But,” said the child, stopping after he had tasted the sweet juice, “I am sorry I have sucked so much; I might have carried it home to father, who is ill; and what a treat it would be to him!—I’ll keep the rest.”
“No—that you sha’n’t,” said the orange-woman. “But I’ll tell you what you shall do—take this home to your father, which is a better one by half—I’m sure it will do him good—I never knew a ripe China orange do harm to man, woman, or child.”