“Knives to grind—scissors to grind.”
The words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms.
“I’ll thank you to grind a point to this knife,” he said, “and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our Samuel’s took it out of his mother’s drawer when she was out, and he’s done it no good, as you may see.”
Jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. Then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ.
“Where, where did you get this?” he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement. “Who, who are you?” stammered Jacob again.
“Who am I?” said the other; “why, my name’s John Walters. I am afraid you’re not quite sober, my friend.”
But just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. She looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. The next moment, with a cry of “Betty!” “Sammul!” brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms,—it was even so—the lost were found at last.