“Where did you come from, old stocking?” said he.
“From England,” said the stocking, very softly.
Carl started right up in bed, and looked between the sheets, and over the counterpane, and behind the head-board—there was nothing to be seen. Then he shook the stocking as hard as he could, but something in it struck his other hand pretty hard too. Carl laid it down and looked at it again, and then cautiously putting in his hand, he with some difficulty found his way to the very toe,—there lay the red cent, just where it had been all the time, upon the biggest of the red darns.
“A red cent!” cried Carl. “O I guess it was you talking, wasn’t it?”
“No,” said the red cent. “But I can talk.”
“Do you know where you came from?” said Carl, staring at the red cent with all his eyes.
“Certainly,” said the cent.
“I dreamed that everything in my stocking told me a story,” said Carl.
“So we will,” said the red cent. “Only to you. To nobody else.”
Carl shook his head very gravely, and having slipped the red cent into the little old purse, he put everything into the stocking again and jumped out of bed. For the drift-wood fire was blazing up to the very top of the little fire-place, and breakfast was almost ready upon the old chest.