“I will pay you with ten pieces of gold money that I have here in my purse.”
“What! you’ve got ten pieces of gold money of your own?”
“My very own.”
“Do just let me look at them,” begged Maurice.
“Look!” said she, opening a pretty little purse with an air of triumph.
“What a lot of gold!” exclaimed my little friend, and he put out his hand to touch it. Then drawing his hand quickly back, he added: “No, no, I cannot sell Cressida. But tell me, who has given you all this gold?”
“It was my papa. Yesterday was his birthday, and I repeated to him a bit of poetry—such pretty poetry!—wishing him many happy returns of the day. Miss Henriette—she’s my English governess, the young lady you see there—she had written it out for me. When I repeated the lines to papa, he gave me these ten napoleons, and he told me to buy something handsome with them for myself,—anything I liked.”
“But I have no idea of selling Cressida,” repeated Maurice.
“You’ve not had him long then, I suppose—not got tired of him yet?”
“I don’t remember exactly how long; eight or nine months perhaps.”